Friend Fiction
by excelsis
Summary: This is the exact reason that your mum warned you to stay away from bars... Started as a one-shot, and I just couldn't let it go. Ultimately, every male character will be slashed with other male characters, with the primary romance being between Anders and Fenris.
1. Chapter 1

Poker Night was a once-a-month gathering where most of the party got together at the Hanged Man to play cards. It wasn't _always_ poker, as the name implied, but cards nonetheless. But the important bit was that everyone was spending quality time together—and the drinking. Mostly the drinking.

As per usual, Sebastian had stubbornly refused to come. He spouted off some nonsense about the evils of drinking and gambling, and condemned everyone else for going as he was wont to do, but this was fine as no one really paid him much heed. However, even Aveline showed up for Poker Night, even though she was a bit of a spoil sport when she was losing.

Isabela offered to deal, but Hawke promptly took the cards away from her, as she was a renown cheat already. The game consisted of small change mostly, and later, the biggest loser of the round had to buy a round of drinks for the table. No one seemed to mind this overmuch, as the one to lose _most_ of the time happened to be Hawke, followed by Aveline and both of them had an income of some sort, unlike the rest of the party. Isabela cheated of course, Varric was skilled at cards, Fenris played cards constantly, Anders was an excellent liar, and Merrill had been getting lessons in cards from Isabela and Varric for some time. And Hawke, of course, was filthy rich, so it was no detrimental financial loss to him when he lost the game.

As the drinking wore on, they laughed more, and sometimes just laughed because everyone had suddenly stopped laughing. Such is the Righteous Path of the Alcohol. Not to mention the story-telling, and the jokes. Isabela had plenty of those, and was always willing to supply one during awkward lulls in conversation. Sometimes, it had nothing to do with what the topic had been previously, but she babbled on about it with a flagrant disregard to logical paths in normal conversation, complete with lots of gesturing, not all of it relevant or especially moral. "… So there's a man on one side of the world walking a tight rope over a _thousand_ feet high canyon, and another man on the _other_ side of the world is with an old toothless hag—who's sucking his cock," she was saying while making a gesture with her hands in case anyone couldn't grasp the reference. The reference was well-grasped, but she made the motion anyway. Merrill blushed at her tale, but was listening; she was developing a taste for Isabela's nasty stories and jokes. Aveline rolled her eyes. Anders looked genuinely amused. "_Both_ of them are thinking _the same thing_." The inflection on her words was wholly unnecessary, but very likely came from the alcohol flowing through her veins in place of blood. She swayed a little, and giggled.

"What are they thinking?" Merrill inquired.

Isabela grinned lustily at her. "Don't look down," she said with a wink. Varric drank to that. Aveline seemed disgusted. Fenris snorted a laugh, trying not to cough up the whisky. Anders smiled wryly, and Hawke chuckled.

Someone called the deal, and cards were laid down. A few people cursed. Isabela's toes curled in glee as she reached toward the pile of coins.

Aveline was growing irritated. "To hell with this!" she declared, rising to her feet. She signaled for another round. "I've work in the morning, unlike the rest of you." The tavern wench circled the table. Isabela's eyes strayed down to the girl's chest as she leaned across the table, filling Hawke's tankard. Aveline stalked to the barkeep to pay off her tab, while grumbling.

Varric tipped his glass to the guard captain. "Goodnight, Aveline," he called after her. The others cheered her out to their good fortune—that being a free round of drinks- and toasted to another round. The Dalish elf was so dizzy that she half-fell back into her chair after the toast. Hawke dexterously snatched her mug of ale as she let go of it, spilling only a little. She slipped to the floor with a loud crash and lay there in a dizzy heap.

Hawke set her mug down and moved to help her, but Varric, sitting at her other side, beat him to it. "Come on, Daisy," he said, helping her back into her chair.

"Oh, it's just so strong," she complained, flushing with embarrassment as well as drink.

Hawke gave her a reassuring smile. "Maybe you should slow down a bit," he offered.

"I think—one more round. Then I should go home. It's getting late," she added.

"And it's _my_ turn to deal," Isabela said, snatching for the deck. She had all the cards dealt in a matter of moments, and the round proceeded, bets were made, lies were told, and alcohol was consumed with such effort that seemed like most everyone was trying to destroy their livers purposefully. Fenris, ever the alcoholic, was in a rather _good_ mood from all the drink, though had been drinking steadily since before the game began. While waiting for the others to show up, he had engaged Isabela in a drinking contest, so neither one of them was remotely sober, but Isabela was drunk _most_ of the time, so the change in him was far more apparent.

They decided to add one more rule to the game: The loser not only had to buy everyone rounds, but a shot of whisky for themselves, to drink _before_ the next game began, thus ensuring that the loser would, in all reality, only continue to lose.

Merrill ended up staying for one more round, before she had to shake her head, too dizzy to go on. "Oh, I just have to go," she said, starting to rise to her feet.

Varric's gaze shifted to the door, his eyes scanning the room's other occupants. Several of them were thieves, cutthroats, and cheaters—and not the friendly kind like Isabela. Lowtown was not a good area at night, and "Daisy" was drunk. "I'll walk you home, Daisy," he volunteered.

Hawke waved him off. "Ah, no—I was thinking of leaving myself; I'd love to take Merrill home," he said, smiling sweetly at the elven mage, while also calling the girl with the pitcher of alcohol over. While the implied intent was not lost on the _other_ assorted people at the table, it went right over Merrill's pretty head.

"That's very kind of you, Hawke," she said, and stumbled as she tried to take a step away from the table. Hawke caught her elbow, keeping her from falling. Isabela used the distraction to snatch Ander's half-finished pint. He scowled at her as he caught her drinking it. She handed it back to him shamelessly, empty. Hawke gently led Merrill out the door.

Anders took the cards from Isabela. "I believe it's my turn," he said.

"Should you really be gambling with the donations you get from your clinic, Anders?" Isabela drawled.

He had half a mind to hit her over the head with a barstool, but doubted that would end well for anyone. "I only see people for free when they can't afford a healer, and I make medicines too," he said flatly as he shuffled the cards. "I have to eat somehow, you know." _And somehow get hold of ingredients, among other necessary things._

"Charity to a point, I see," Fenris muttered darkly.

Anders stared at the elf blankly, but to be frank, he was seeing two of him. "Says the man who admits to thievery," he exclaimed as he dished out cards.

"Kids, let's all play nice," Varric said, his voice as smooth as velvet rubbed the _right_ way.

"I think they should just fuck and get it out of their system," Isabela said as she examined her hand. Most people had filters on their mouths, to keep from saying things they should not; others lack this filter. Isabela is, of course, of the latter group.

"Frequent orgasm _does_ make a person more agreeable," Anders said, missing what Isabela had really implied—likely because of the drink, as he has a rather dirty mind otherwise. Fenris raised an eyebrow, but wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. There was quite a bit of strange buzzing going on in his head right now, after all, and he wasn't certain that he was hearing _anything_ correctly at the moment. "Oh, is that why Fenris is so moody all the time?"

Though he certainly heard and understood _that._

Isabela laughed. Varric decided that now would be a good time to finish his ale. Fenris stared at him in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion, but was frankly too drunk to properly school his usually sulky countenance into something menacing.

But Anders was a bit of a shit-disturber, and continued on. "Y'know, I've _heard_ that _sometimes_ slave are castrated. Keeps them from getting distracted from their duties," he said, smirking at the fugitive through his alcohol-induced haze.

Fenris's fingers clenched on the stone tankard. "Maybe they should castrate mages," he said, eyes narrowing. "It would keep them from _breeding_."

Anders twitched in anger, but not enough to rouse Justice, who for the moment was quietly satiated under the alcohol. "Frankly, I'm only surprised that they _don't_," he muttered under his breath. _They do everything else! Just look at the Qunari mages!_

Which is precisely when the next hand was dealt, and the serving girl brought everyone's refills, and the two fell to silence. She winked broadly at Isabela as she passed by.

Another round. More alcohol. More bets, more cursing, but at least the argument had been dropped and apparently, mostly, forgotten in favor of other things.

As the hand was called, the serving wench passed by again, and whispered something in Isabela's ear. The pirate smiled, said nothing, but did nod. They played another round, and the girl glanced back at the table as her shift ended.

Isabela called the hand early, took her winnings, and dashed out the door with the busty blonde with nary a farewell. After all, in her own words, "men were only good for one thing; women were good for six." Varric only laughed. Fenris finished his alcohol and set the stone cup back down. "I'm leaving," he announced unnecessarily, and rose to unsteady feet. The whole world seemed to spin like a top. He stumbled as he took a step. The dwarf's eyebrow rose in appraisal.

"Why don't you just get a room here for the night?" he suggested.

Fenris's lips curled into a defiant frown. _No. Too many people coming and going to relax._ "Absolutely not," he said, and proceeded to take another step. But the ground wouldn't stay steady, and he seemed to miss the floor. He stumbled again, and caught himself on the table.

"How much have you _drank_?" Anders asked, incredulous. He held up a few fingers on a hand. "Can you count? How many fingers?"

Fenris stared at him, at his hand. Numbers came and left him through the haze. Being able to read was different from being able to count. Easier, made more sense, had more use in the world—even to a slave. "You don't… _have_ twelve fingers," he said, but sounded somewhat uncertain of this fact. He had never exactly counted Anders' fingers before.

Anders whistled. "Right. You think Hawke would be very angry if we let him go home alone?" he asked Varric.

Varric laughed. "Letting a drunk elf wander around Lowtown and up to Hightown?" he asked with a laugh. "He'll be pissed _when _Fenris gets mugged and wakes up in a gutter."

Anders sighed. "Of course—shall we?" He rose to his feet. Fenris glared at him. There was a brief argument, that Varric won with logic, and the vaguely intoxicated dwarf helped support the very intoxicated elf. The broody elf would not let Anders near enough to help, so it was up to Varric to practically carry him out of the bar. The barkeep called after them that he would just put it on Varric's tab. The dwarf grumbled to himself as Anders held the door open for them. However, the odd trio had barely made it into the market area when someone called after Varric.

Varric turned and groaned aloud. "Here, hold Fenris for a bit," he said, and unceremoniously let go of the elf and marched up to the man calling after him. Anders barely caught him when he stumbled, but he noticed when Fenris's complexion started to pale, then change color.

"Shit!" he cried, and moved out of the way, helping support him when he vomited. "Drink until you puke, hmm?"

Fenris coughed, spit twice, and stumbled away from the pile of mostly partially digested drink before his legs buckled, and he fell on his knees roughly, holding his head, as if it would keep it from splitting down the middle, which was about what it felt like at the moment. And this wasn't even time for the hangover—lovely. It was just ordinary drank-too-much sickness.

Anders left him alone for a bit, and tried to eavesdrop on Varric from a polite distance. Varric was arguing, but in a low, heated tone. He could catch snatches here and there, but nothing of any use. It didn't seem to be going anywhere.

He wandered over to Fenris to check on him. "Feeling any better?" he asked, all professional as he decided to put aside his dislike for the elf. He'd just treat him like a patient. He treated elves frequently enough… They were all poor, it seemed.

"No," he answered. He was so blunt that Anders almost laughed.

"If you have a hangover in the morning, come see me; I can get rid of it," he offered. Fenris raised his head to glare at him. Anders rolled his eyes. "And I don't even have to use magic," he added. Fenris inhaled deeply, fingers pressed against his temples, eyes squeezed shut against the dizziness. It would be a great help if the world would just stay still like it was supposed to.

Varric trotted up to them. "There's something I have to take care of—it really won't wait," he said, shrugging helplessly. "You two are on your own—don't kill each other."

Before either the human or the elf could protest, the dwarf hurried off. Anders sighed, staring up at the sky as if the answers to all life's problems would fall on his head, like rain. Speaking of which… "Oh, Andraste's tits!" he cried as the first raindrops fell in his hair. He glanced down at Fenris. "Want a mint?"

He raised his head. "Yes," he said.

Anders opened his bag at his hip and leafed through it for a moment, trying to find the small pouch containing mints. It smelled strongly of mint leaf when he opened it. Anders had to get into a lot of people's personal space, and sometimes it made him conscious of his personal hygiene, hence the mints. He handed one to the elf.

Fenris popped it into his mouth, eager to be rid of the foul taste of alcohol-ridden vomit. It hadn't tasted nearly as bad going down. At least not after the first couple of drinks anyway! "Um… Thank you. I think I can manage from here," he said, sounding so full of self-confidence that if it were a liquid, it might not fill a thimble. Feigned confidence, on the other hand, was a different story—it might require a shot glass.

Anders simply raised an eyebrow, and crossed his arms. "Well, off you go then." He gestured up the path to High Town.

Fenris rose to his feet awkwardly, and steadied himself against a wall. Fingertips lightly resting against the stucco, he started to walk. One, two, three… Three steps, and he swayed. Anders took one step forward, body tensed to close the last two steps should the elf fall. But he didn't. Rather, he shook his head a little, as if to clear it, and scanned the shadows in a paranoid habit. Finally, he started off again. He came to the steps, and stared up at them, as if looking up a vast, impassible distance. Anders followed just a little behind him, not offering help, but simply _watching_.

The broody elf took a deep breath, and stared down at his feet. One in front of the other, and don't move too quickly. He could feel the alcohol sloshing in his stomach. It might have been wise to eat something before imbibing alcohol. He considered that. No, the alcohol was far more important. He wanted _nothing_ between him and the elixir that took a bit of the pain away.

Anders let the elf continue to get farther and farther away, and followed at a distance. It wasn't hard to spot Fenris at night; the lyrium would shine through anything. He stayed at least within range of most of his spells—just in case—all the same though.

He actually seemed to be doing pretty well. Slow progress, and got dizzy frequently, but he hadn't thrown up at least. Anders contemplated just leaving him. Who would be the wiser anyway? Varric maybe. He could always say that Fenris yelled at him until he left. No one would have cause to doubt the truth of that. Yet he still continued to plod after him.

It was kind of a shame that Fenris was so… _himself_—hateful, resentful, and whatnot. He was good-looking, and Anders didn't really _want_ anyone to hate him. He was sort of a people-pleaser and he had tried so hard to get the elf to put aside his prejudices, but… Oh, well. Lost cause, he supposed. Shame.

He was lost in his thoughts when Fenris stumbled, fell to his knees, and heaved up the last of the alcohol remaining in his stomach. Anders stayed a respectful distance until the elf stopped, and walked away from it. At least he got it in the gutter this time.

"All your money, or you die," a voice called. Anders looked up. Fenris reached for his sword. _Shit!_ They were just a small group of thugs, but both of them were recovering from hours of drinking. Anders snatched his staff. Movements were clumsy, spells took longer to cast and were often misdirected. Things could have gone more smoothly. Dead or driven off the men still were, but it could have been better.

Anders wiped the sweat from his brow. "I think that could have been worse," he said helpfully.

"Yes—you almost healed the enemy instead of me," Fenris said with as much mustered sarcasm as he could past the strong desire to just lie down and stay down.

"Shut up—at least I'm not throwing up," Anders said, stomping over to him. When he got to him though, his mouth snapped shut and he chose not to say what he had in mind. Fenris was pale. Ignoring the elf's inhibitions, he put his hand against his forehead. Warm, but not overmuch. Pupils looked normal. Maybe it was just the vomiting. He could use some sleep, and some water—possibly dehydrated. "Mint?"

Fenris sucked on the mint as he made his way through Hightown, Anders in tow. It helped him concentrate, as well as got the rancid taste out of his mouth. He _would_ say he wouldn't do this again, but the alcohol helped dull the constant pain he felt from the lyrium markings. Was it really one sort of pain or the other? A throbbing ache from the markings or a burning sickness from the alcohol? Slavery or constant paranoia? This would be a prime time for the hunters to find him! That thought gave him pause. _Maybe I should drink less?_

He banished the thought as soon as it occurred to him. Maybe he should just make sure to not be alone when he drank himself sick.

He glanced back at Anders over his shoulder, and scanned the darkness beyond him. He was a bit surprised that the mage was actually escorting him back. A good thing, too. He felt weak from all the vomiting, and felt like easy prey.

He knew, deep down where he refused to admit it, that Anders wasn't _exactly_ a bad person. He tried—desperately, almost feverishly—to help others and do good in the world; he was a doctor. In addition, he utterly condemned blood magic; he had overheard some of his conversation with Merrill, after all. And he wasn't _quite_ an abomination except in the barest sense of the term. There was no good word for what Anders was exactly.

There was a long period of silence, and Anders started talking, as if just to fill it. "I didn't used to care, you know—about the Circle. I just thought 'I'd ignore it, and it will go away,'" he said, laughing hollowly.

"Problems don't go away for ignoring them," Fenris reprimanded him.

Anders sighed. "I know." He started to mention Justice, how Justice had convinced him that he needed to help, but decided he had better not. He laughed again, and it sounded slightly less hollow than before. "I used to want… an entire harem of women, feasts, and the ability to rain fireballs down on the people who annoy me. Quite selfish, don't you think?"

"Perhaps you should apprentice under a magister in the Imperium," Fenris suggested cattily.

Anders blinked in surprise. "They have _harems_ in the Imperium?" he asked incredulously, that being the only bit about the previous statement he chose to recognize. Fenris rolled his eyes and, similarly, chose not to reply. It didn't matter; the mage kept talking anyway. "Well, anyway, I really just… I guess I just want someone to care about me—I don't need a harem." He paused. "Do you ever feel that way?"

Fenris paused in mid-step, and kept walking. Maybe it was the drink still swimming through his veins, but he replied, "Sometimes."

Anders looked up at the sky. The rain had started in earnest a short time ago. Fortunately, they were in the lower parts of High Town by the time that had happened, and the drainage system in the streets was much better here. He hated Dark Town in the rain—sometimes the sewers flooded, and it was just awful. Even the Alienage was better than Dark Town.

"Other times, I think a harem would be nice," Fenris said in his oh-so-serious voice.

Anders laughed, joke or not. "A group of beautiful, half-naked women to fawn over you while you lounge in an over-stuffed chair, and feed you grapes?"

"Men too," Fenris said, glancing over his shoulder at Anders, as if seeing him for the first time. Anders never talked about anything _but_ mages and the Circle. He had come to believe nothing ever went through his head except those things. Maybe Anders should drink more often; he might be able to stand him more if he would just talk about something else. He had come to accept Hawke, after all, and he was a mage too. Merrill was another story entirely.

Anders laughed again, wiping the rain off his face futilely. "Oh, definitely." He considered. "You know, we've never talked like this."

Fenris sighed. He had ruined it by mentioning it. "Perhaps, if you'd speak of something besides the Circle, and mages…"

Anders' mouth twisted into a frown. "But… it's…" He frowned. "There has to be a better way."

Fenris felt his temper begin to flare. "For the mages, or for everyone else?" he demanded.

The mage's eyebrows raised in something akin to sorrow. "For everyone." They fell back into a silence again, this time more uncomfortable than before. Out of the blue, Anders asked, "Say, have you ever seen a _female_ Qunari—even once?"

The elf blinked, thought about it, and said, "No, actually. Qunari women are not warriors."

Anders nodded sagely. "Do you suppose they paint their horns the same way that other women paint their toenails?" Fenris's mouth twisted, trying to smile, and willing himself not to. Anders raised an eyebrow. "Maybe they hang things on them? Like bells? Surely every woman in the world wants to look pretty—do you suppose Qunari women are any different?"

Fenris blinked as he considered this. "I… don't… know," he admitted grudgingly.

Anders nodded. "Fine then. I'll have one Qunari woman in my harem, and I'll find out."

The elf couldn't help it; he laughed, but at the absurdity of the statement. "Coupling in the Qun is a duty, not a pleasure," he said. "For the purpose of procreation."

The previous jovial nature of their conversation suddenly seemed gloomy. Anders looked down. That seemed… so sad. The nature of the thought was enough to make him want to be driven to silence. Rather, he said, "No wonder they're always so angry."

"Perhaps." The silence that ensued was more comfortable this time, and it took them both a moment to realize that they were walking side by side. "So, one Qunari, and I presume a dozen human virgins?"

"Andraste, no!" Anders cried in horror as they rounded a corner. The mansion was finally in sight. "Losing one's virginity is a messy and unpleasant business. Often very embarrassing, horrifying, and sometimes you're lucky if you're not mentally scarred by it. Even then, I should think, if I get to choose, at least three elves."

"Only three?"

"Three of the women at least," Anders laughed.

Fenris nodded knowingly. "And how many men?"

"Of the elves? I think—" His voice cut off as Fenris, weakened, stumbled again. He caught him this time, and walked beside him to the mansion. "Make sure to drink _water_ before you get to bed."

"I will," Fenris muttered, but not in a way that convinced Anders. The doctor opened the door, and followed him inside.

"Go sit down," Anders instructed. "The kitchen is that way, isn't it? I'll go get some water." Most of the houses in High Town had a water pump, which was always situated nearby the kitchen. This one was just outside the door. By the time he came back with a bucket of cold water, and a cup, Fenris had dropped his sword near his feet, and was sitting in a chair, hands holding his head. "Feeling sick?" he asked him, holding out the cup. Drinking water when already plastered was actually only a good way to thin out the blood and get more intoxicated, but it did help with the hangover the next morning. Anders had already considered sobering Fenris to be a lost cause.

The elf accepted. "A bit." He lifted his head, sipping from it.

Anders jumped when the sky seemed to open up. The water crashed down on the roof like a panicked doe through a meadow. He could hear thunder distantly. A storm—great. And he had a long walk back to Dark Town. Shit. He shivered a little. Water dripped from Fenris's hair, still damp from their brief walk. The longer bits were stuck to his face in places, and he seemed content to leave it there.

"How can you stand to go barefoot all the time?" Anders asked him as he tended to the fire, and lit it with a spell rather than a tinder box.

"How can you stand to wear shoes?" he countered.

Anders let the matter go, but it seemed cold, and… icky. Fecal matter did exist and all that… "You finish the cup?" he asked him as he walked back. It was empty, and his lips were damp. He filled the cup again and handed it back. Anders went to the window, staring out at the storm, making a face at it. Hawke, he doubted was at home, or he would request to crash on his sofa—maybe stash another of his manifestos somewhere…

Well, he doubted Bodahn would turn him away if he asked. Still…

"Dark Town floods when it storms like this, doesn't it?" Fenris asked offhandedly.

Anders sighed, and nodded. "Unfortunately—it's absolutely disgusting."

Fenris looked at him over the chair, considered saying something, and stopped. He finished what was left in the cup, and walked away without saying anything to use the privy, leaving Anders alone.

The mage crossed his arms. They had _just_ managed to avoid the downpour outside, and it was only getting worse. The wind was picking up pretty badly too. On the up side, he doubted he would have to worry about his walk home as far as Templars or cutthroats, but alternately, he would practically drown outside. He was in no hurry to get out there.

Oh, well. It didn't show any signs of stopping or even easing up, and he couldn't stay here. He might as well get going. He sighed miserably at the idea.

He turned to go, trudging along, dragging his feet. Just outside the room, he nearly ran in to Fenris. "You're leaving? In this?" he asked, his tone of voice questioning Anders' sanity. Somewhere in the main room, water was dripping from a leak in the ceiling. He should go find a bucket or something to put under it, lest the water catch and help with the mold production in the floorboards—like he needed more problems up-keeping this place.

Thunder crashed outside, and the mage grimaced. "Yes—it's time to drown myself. Wish me luck with that."

"You never answered my question," the elf said matter-of-factly.

Anders paused, and looked at him. Fenris really was quite tall for an elf, he reflected, though still a bit shorter than he. Most elves, he towered over—at least a head higher. Isabela called him "lanky"—he guessed it was true. The elf stared up at him in a manner that implied that he was in no way even aware of the height difference. He also looked at him as if he were blissfully unaware of how attractive he was, which was a quality in others Anders often found to be endearing. "What?"

Fenris' pouty lips twisted into a frown of obvious displeasure. Never mind that mind reading is a loose form of blood magic… The elf was too intoxicated to think about it. "How many men?"

Anders felt a sudden sense of clarity. Also, he couldn't remember his original answer. "One," he blurted without thinking, staring at the elf.

Fenris cocked his head to the side, as if listening to something that Anders couldn't hear. It was entirely possible; elves had better hearing than humans. "I wouldn't go out," he suggested. Anders turned from him, looking down at the door across the hall. "If you go to Dark Town, you'll never get dry. You'll get sick." Also, he could hear the heavy footsteps of the city guard outside. They would likely question anyone walking around in this mess this late at night, but he didn't feel inclined to mention it.

Anders glanced over his shoulder. "Since when did you care?"

"I believe it is your saying—'a favor for a favor'?" He shrugged, and turned from him. "The mansion is very large, and I have several extra beds that I don't use. Just stay here." Fenris didn't wait for a reply; he walked back into the main room; it was warmer by now. He stood in front of the fire, his leathers still damp. If Anders weren't here, he would just pull them off. For that matter, why bother? They were both men… He remembered that Anders was attracted to other men though.

He had no inhibitions about it—either being naked or about being with another man-but wondered if it would be awkward at all to strip. He crossed his arms, and did nothing. Maybe it was the drink talking, but… He looked up, watching Anders walk back inside, drawn in by the lure of the fire. He didn't walk over to the fireplace, though. He wandered over to the bookshelf. Isabela had helped him pick through it, and Varric helped to sell whichever ones were the most valuable. The rest he had simply forgotten about.

Anders wiped a layer of dust off of a thick volume towards the bottom. He laughed with delight. "Oh!" he exclaimed, pulling it off the shelf. "Do you know what this is?"

Fenris glanced up at it. He couldn't read, but he recognized the faded gold filigree on the title. "Isabela borrowed that once."

Anders grinned. "_Golden Chains_. It's about… Andraste…" Fenris frowned, blinking. _Why would Isabela read something like that?_ "And a love affair with her general. And practically everyone else for that matter."

Now he understood. "I… see."

He grinned. "I can read it to you. I'll fake voices and everything."

"I don't think we've had enough whisky for that," Fenris said. "But there's some in the cellar."

Anders grinned, and Fenris trotted off to continue destroying his liver. The mage plopped down on the sofa comfortably, setting his staff nearby on the floor. He stretched, and listened to the rain outside. It really would be miserable in the clinic. He felt guilty, though, not being there sometimes. He knew that the Fereldens needed him, and he felt obligated to help. Similarly, a dim part of him knew that enslaving himself to those in need, simply because they needed him, was no way to live either. Hence the never-ending dilemma that he seemed to live by… He had left the Grey Wardens under not so dissimilar circumstances.

The elf came back with a bottle of brandy instead of whiskey, and the bottle drove Anders from his thoughts. "How much alcohol is down there anyway?" the Warden demanded.

Fenris shrugged a shoulder. "There was a fully stocked cellar when I first came here," he said, pouring two glasses.

Anders took a tentative sip from the offered glass. It was good brandy—he hadn't had _good_ brandy in a long time, and drinking it was more than cherished, and pleasing. He took a second sip, more appreciative. He let the liquid burn down his throat warmly, licking his lips. "All right, where do I begin?"

Fenris sat down opposite to him. "Begin at the beginning," he said.

"Wise words," Anders told him, and flipped the book open. It started out just as raunchy as one would expect if Isabela wanted to read it, and Anders sometimes had to compose himself before beginning a new sentence, now and again glancing up to read Fenris's facial expressions as well as the words in the book. By the end of the first chapter, they were both sufficiently drunk again after their sobering walk in the rain, and sometimes couldn't help but laugh at the book, and Anders impersonating accents he didn't naturally possess.

Fenris watched Anders from over the rim of his glass—there are fewer better ways to watch someone than over the rim of a glass of good brandy. The mage was amusing, he realized, when he wanted to be. The firelight played in his blonde hair, danced across his face, creating shadow and light intermittently, beautifully. The brandy lent a flush to his cheeks, and a slight slur, but he laughed more. He had a fine laugh—he should use it more often. It suited him much better.

Anders looked up from the book when he noticed Fenris watching him. "What? Do I have something on my face?" he demanded.

"No," Fenris replied, taking the last sip of brandy from his glass. He set it down. Anders looked back at the book, and seemed to be trying to find his place again. "You think elves are attractive?" The current subject matter of the book was not so far from the question, and so the mage thought nothing of the sudden inquiry.

Anders shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "I think everyone does—some people just won't admit it," he said.

"And you prefer men?" His voice and face were as bland and unreadable as if he were inquiring as to the weather, or politics.

Anders blinked, trying to piece together where this was going, and frowning when he came to a conclusion he didn't quite believe. "Honestly? Yes."

Fenris leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. "Do you think I'm attractive?"

The mage laughed, suddenly certain that this had to be some kind of hoax. Possibly, he considered that the elf was, more than likely, just drunk and spouting off—maybe feeling insecure. He couldn't for a moment imagine why. "Is this a trick question? If I say yes, you'll accuse me of something, and if I say no, you'll get offended?"

"No, it's not a trick," he assured him.

Anders rolled his eyes and decided to roll with it. "Your eyes are like the first sprouts of spring. Your hair shimmers like the snow on a mountaintop-"

Fenris interjected, "It was a simple question."

Anders grinned wickedly. "And your skin glows as if you swallowed the moon, and then were flayed horribly, and little strips of it showed through—the beauty of which can never be hidden."

The elf stared at him in shocked disbelief. "That was… the worst metaphor I've ever heard."

Anders nodded, self-satisfied. "Glad I could assist you with that. Also, it was a 'simile.' Now, where were we? Ah, yes… Andraste's nipples grew taught…" He continued to read aloud, giggling with the drink occasionally.

Fenris had been hoping for a better answer. Now he wasn't so certain. Anders had certainly been looking at him for some time, and even seemed suggestive at other times. Or was that just the alcohol? No way to tell. Fenris leaned back in the chair, and pulled off the gauntlets. He tossed them to the floor. Anders looked up briefly, but looked back at the book. He _was_ certain that _he_ at least was interested—tonight. He was here, after all, and… Well, maybe…

Maybe it was the alcohol talking. He glared at the bottle for a moment, as if it were all its fault, as he listened to Anders read. _Just forget about it_. It was undoubtedly just the alcohol. But still, he _was_ here all night. And sex on a night like this would be… welcome. It would be cold once the fire died. And he felt like he had been alone in that bed long enough. Maybe… the sexual release would help. Maybe he could relax, if only for a moment, if he didn't fall asleep alone for once.

"… And Fenris mounted him like a wild stallion—" The elf looked up. Anders grinned. "I was just seeing if you were listening." His grin faded. "You seemed lost in thought there. Something on your mind?"

"No," he lied.

Anders glanced back at the book. "Do you want me to keep reading, or do you think you're ready for bed?"

_Bed_, he thought, glancing at the mage. "One more chapter?"

Anders settled into the chair, and continued where he had left off. Anders knew _he_ certainly felt lonely. He wanted to be held, even for a little while. He hadn't been with anyone since… Well, never mind that. But it had been a long time. He supposed it would be nice just to get off too. He glanced at Fenris. No, ridiculous. Don't even go there. He continued to read, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He kept replacing all the characters in his mind's eye, pausing a little more frequently than before. He kept imagining a different body, a different face. And it certainly didn't involve Andraste, or any woman for that matter.

Hands touched his shoulders. He looked up, startled, and wasn't certain as to why he had been startled. It could only be one person.

Fenris leaned down, hesitated, and pressed his lips against his. The elf couldn't say exactly what overcame his stipulations—likely the alcohol—but he had decided to give in to his temptations. And why not? Anders was understandably confused for a moment, and so was frozen as his brain processed what was happening.

Outside, the wind howled furiously, as if in protest to the kiss. The window panes rattled, but held fast. The fire crackled, and a loud pop made Anders drop the book in his lap. The mage lifted his hand and pulled Fenris down, eager to devour the other's lips.

Fenris straddled Anders, pinning his shoulders against the back of the sofa. But for all his forcefulness… Anders kissed him with years of experience on his side. One of the first things he had done on his very first escape from the tower was to visit a whore house. Later on, taverns. And the Circle in Ferelden wasn't as closely watched as in Kirkwall—he had kissed nearly every attractive female there. Not to mention how easy sex was with robes—no buttons, no ties, everything just came off quickly, and you were done before the Templars were any the wiser. At the time, he hadn't yet expanded his horizons to include men—his own loss.

Fenris, on the other hand, seemed less confident. Not hesitant exactly, nor unwilling, just didn't have the experience. Come to think of it…

Anders broke away, too curious to let this pass. "Have you ever kissed someone? _Really_ kissed someone? Like this." He leaned forward, catching his lips. The kiss was open-mouthed, and hot. His tongue ran across his lips. He nibbled on his lower lip, and pushed his tongue against his lips, covering them again. He sought entry into his mouth. His tongue was met by Fenris's. Again, not unwilling, just inexperienced. He pulled away breathless, and smiling, and full of enough longing to not continue the conversation when he truly knew the answer. But… still… "Have you?"

Fenris paused, and his face became unreadable for a moment, the face he had worn when he had watched his master murder a child to fuel his magic. Then it became coy. "No."

Anders scowled. "Now I don't know if you're being serious or not." The elf returned the scowl, but systematically started working at the buttons on Anders' coat, the large silver links diverting attention from them. His eyebrows raised in surprise. "You sure are direct."

He frowned at him, and looked back at what he was doing. "Anders. We're not children that don't know what we're doing, nor blushing brides on their wedding nights," he reprimanded him. Good point. No, there was no use being shy, except in play. There was no use pretending that this wouldn't lead to sex. It was folly to think it was a kiss and that they would shy away from it like giggling children. They were grown men, and past all pretenses.

"So there's no use in reminding you that we usually are at each other's throats?" The word vomit just sort of spewed out of his mouth, out of his control. He had always said whatever was on his mind—even if it meant the Templars cuffing him for insolence on the marches back to the Tower. This was no different.

Fenris didn't even pause from his work on the buttons, except when he finished, and unclasped the chain at his breast. "Anders? Shut up," he suggested. _You're ruining it. Talk anymore and I'm kicking you out._

Something about his tone of voice made Anders fall silent—not telepathy exactly, just years of people looking at him with a disapproving look on their face, and Fenris's eyes were nothing if not disapproving. When Anders fell silent, Fenris resumed kissing him, and the coals of the sensual heat between them flamed anew—and he forgot what they had been talking about.

He was dimly aware of _Golden Chains_ slipping to the floor as he shifted, and Fenris pushed him down, on his back. He liked it when another man took control. It was relaxing somehow, and oddly comforting in a way he hadn't known could be before he had first bedded another man. He'd never been with a male elf before either—just a female whore back in Denerim once. But he didn't really think of this as a conquest, or just another notch on his belt either. Once upon a time, he might have, but that time was past. He was older now, more mature he hoped.

His hands touched the soft leather of Fenris' tunic. It was close-fitting, and up close, his fingers running along it, he could feel the contour of Fenris' muscles. Under the leather, he imagined that his torso would be muscled, lean but with just the healthy amount of body fat, and well-defined. He had to know.

The frog closures might have once been difficult to pry apart, but that time was long past with a lot of wear, and they came undone with some coaxing. He started at the bottom of the tunic, and worked his way up. Something hard pinned against his chest as Fenris leaned down. Oh, damn it all—the breastplate!

Fenris must have noticed it in the same moment, because he leaned back, breaking their long kiss, and worked at freeing himself from it. He was a bit breathless, and heady as well as, Anders knew, completely drunk.

He tossed the breastplate aside with about as much care as one could muster under the circumstances. It landed with a loud banging sound on the floor, and neither of them seemed to notice, or care. The noise made a lovely counterpoint to the booming thunder. No longer impeded by the hard metal, he fell back upon Anders' lips, suddenly grown ravenous with desire, and vastly impatient.

Ander's eyes flickered open as he kissed him, his hands finishing undoing the frog closures on the tunic. Gleefully, he explored the suddenly unwrapped gift of the elf's chest, and moaned with delight at what he felt. Hard, corded muscle born of years of blade work, defined, sculpted stomach. And his chest…! His toes curled in his boots as his fingers traced the other's nipples—light touches.

Fenris moaned softly against his mouth, burying one of his hands in Anders' hair. The other pushed his coat to the side, and then trailed down the long tunic, almost a robe. His fingers curled around the hem of the garment, and lifted it up. He shifted, and pushed it slowly up, over the expanse of the other's stomach. Their bare skin finally touched.

Anders' lips twitched into what wanted to be a soft smile as he continued kissing Fenris, and parted to breathe. His lips instead found the other's neck. He lapped along the bend of his neck, kissing, and sucking. He nibbled the lobe of his ear, nipping delicately. He bit playfully at the skin on his neck, and chanced running his tongue across the vein of lyrium.

He could hear Fenris panted with need, felt his hands roving over him, exploring the regions of his chest with all the excitement of a man struck with wanderlust spying a new land. His eyes flickered open again, barely realizing that he had closed them to begin with. Now he did smile. Fenris was _glowing_. Not the way he usually would glow—but brightly, shimmering, especially in the places Anders would touch.

Anders ran a hand along his chest, tracing a root-like vein. He wondered if it would be unwelcome, and decided to test it anyway. A tiny thread of magic cooled the area that he touched with one finger, and another trailed just behind it, activating sudden heat. Cold—then sudden heat, made the area very sensitive. It worked the other way around too.

He traced along the vein, not on it, but near it, and then made his own patterns, sweeping, and high. He noticed that Fenris had stopped moving. "Something wrong?" Anders asked him, stopping the movement.

Fenris sat back, looking as if he were caught between something. He shook his head. "I…" He shook his head again, having no words to convey his confusion. He had _only_ ever seen magic used to hurt, or to heal hurts. He hadn't known there could be any in-betweens. Magic, he thought, was a tool of destruction and death, and sometimes of healing—and nothing more. This contradicted everything he thought he knew. Like most people, he disliked his beliefs being contradicted in such a way that was impossible to refute.

Anders' eyebrows rose. "There's more to magic than pain," he said, then eased the tension with a smile. "It also makes for great foreplay." He frowned. "Or did you not like the cold-hot thing? I have other tricks."

Fenris was having trouble grasping for the proper words to convey his emotions over the entire thing, and even wasn't certain as to how he should feel about it. It hadn't felt _bad_—pleasant even—but it was _magic_, and… He felt like his sense of morals and values were becoming corrupted, and could find no way to convey this to Anders without insulting him, so simply relied on silence.

In the several seconds of staring at each other that ensued, Anders shifted uncomfortably. "So…" he began. _Mood: Ruined,_ he thought sullenly. Hey, it had worked with every other girl and guy he'd been with. _They_ had certainly liked it, and if they didn't like that, they _had_ liked the little tendrils of electricity he could run across their skin. He hadn't counted on Fenris reacted so badly to it. And the elf wasn't even _angry_—that may have been the worst part. Just reluctant now, confused, and that was almost worse. The heat of anger could, with some sexual tension, become the heat of lust. Or at least they'd just go back to being at each other's throats later on with just a little more water under the bridge. But the awkward silence, the sudden reluctance, _that_ was making it awkward.

Anders felt that he needed to fix this. It had been his fault. Always talking at the wrong moments, saying the wrong things, _doing_ the wrong things. But what could he do to fix it? Surely the situation could be salvaged somehow? "Fenris, I…" But he could think of nothing to say, even put under the pressure. He decided to try a different approach. "You should stay like that," he said, smiling reassuringly. "The firelight is beautiful in your hair, and the warm tones are doing wonders for your complexion. Just don't move." It was all true, as far as Anders was concerned. The firelight, the shadows of the room, the storm outside—it was perfect, and Fenris looked good in the middle of it, emitting a faint blue-white light of his own.

With that, the tension was eased, the silence broken. Anders was obviously still interested, had obviously not intended to alarm Fenris, and more obviously still, was sincerely sorry that the elf hadn't liked it. "I… wouldn't be comfortable if you were to try that again," Fenris said, getting right to the point, but slowly easing back down, over Anders again. It would be childish and immature to pussy-foot around the issue, or even to become angry and insist the other leave. They had come this far, after all.

Anders pouted. "You won't let me do the things I'm best at in bed—sensual delights? How do you expect me to bring you to orgasm if you're taking away my specialty?"

Fenris smiled, a slight upturning of the lips, but it had more to do with his eyes than his mouth. "Oh, I can think of a few ways…" It was nice when they kissed again, relaxing as the moment of uncertainty passed and was left behind. Anders found the lacings on Fenris' leather leggings. He started picking at the knot. He was almost tempted to burn it off, but he doubted the elf would appreciate that much.

When he had unlaced them, their kiss had lasted long enough to leave them both breathless. It was clear that they had to change positions, or they wouldn't be able to undress any further. Fenris eased up. One shoulder of his tunic slipped, exposing a bare shoulder. Most elves were very petite, even the men. They were natural rogues—dexterous, slender, and short. Fenris was a living contradiction to everything Anders had thought was common for elves—except a few base things… Anders leaned forward, his lips finding the bare shoulder. He kissed, licked, and caressed him. His hands went back inside the tunic, impatiently shoving it down, off of him. He felt Fenris prying at his own clothing, and moved his arms to slide off the coat. He needed to get his boots off, he reflected. Removing boots at times like this was always sexy of course.

Fenris seemed to glow a little brighter everywhere that Anders was currently touching. Did it react to his own magic? It was possible, he guessed. But not something he cared overmuch about at the moment, not enough to investigate anyway, even if it wouldn't be unappreciated.

He nibbled along his neck, down to his collar bone, and left a trail of kisses down to his naval. He lapped sensuously along his pants line, his fingers trailing along his sculpted chest. He heard the elf moan—must have sensitive skin. He didn't doubt it. Constant pain did make one sensitive to touching.

He wondered what the lyrium markings lower down was like. Fenris tugged off Anders' tunic, over his head, and dropped it somewhere on the floor, his fingers immediately running down his back, tracing the dips and curves of his chest. Anders' fingers curled into the top of the fugitive's leggings, all too eager to pull them down and off of him. He leaned forward, lips against his chest, his lashes brushing against his skin. He inhaled deeply, cherishing the closeness with another person. Fenris smelled like stale sweat, alcohol, fine leather, and faintly of the fire's smoke. _Sort of like a tavern_, Anders thought. Not a bad thing. He had some fine memories of taverns and pubs, and now he would just have one more—hopefully pleasant-memory to add to that smell he associated with "tavern."

Anders yelped, then moaned, when he felt Fenris pinch and slowly rub one of his nipples between two fingers, his other hand running down to Anders' close-fitted pants. He tugged, and Fenris moved so that Anders could, slowly, roll his leggings down. He kissed in a trail of the newly exposed skin, down one leg, and slid the leggings off of his feet. By then, he was kneeling on the floor. He kissed his way back up, on the other leg, and lapped along the artery on his inner thigh, even where the lyrium arced through it. It didn't taste any different to him than the rest of Fenris had so far, except that it _did_ taste faintly of a mana potion…

He came back to his pelvis, nibbling along the bone, listening to Fenris moan, impatient. Anders snaked a hand up, between his legs, gently cupping his testicles. With his thumb, he made a soft, circular motion. It was kind of nice, he thought, not having body hair. He had liked that in elfin women too. He licked along the base of the elf's cock, kissing where, if he had been human, a nest of coarse hair would be. He imagined that dwarves must be especially hairy… Now was not the time for speculating about dwarves.

He ran his tongue along the shaft, and swallowed his spit, trying to work out more saliva in his mouth before continuing. The key to giving good head was to practically drool over it, he knew. But he wanted to tease a bit more first. He nibbled on the foreskin, giving sucking kisses without actually taking him in his mouth. Fenris was leaned back in the chair, and panting, his fingers tracing slow circles on Anders' shoulders.

Anders tilted his head, lapping his testicles. Those, he drew into his mouth, sucking on them, keeping his teeth carefully away. He rolled them in his mouth like a hard candy, and heard Fenris take a sharp intake of breath. One of his hands steadied himself on the elf's thigh, and the other, now free, ran teasingly along the length of his erect member, playing with the foreskin. He closed his eyes, imagining that hard thickness inside of him. The thought was making him impatient, but it would be all the sweeter should he wait longer.

He gently pushed his testicles out of his mouth with his tongue, and pressed his lips along the space between cock and balls, ran his tongue slowly, pressing hard and sometimes sucking harder, along the vein. His hand gently kneaded the saliva-slickened testicles. Finally, finally—_slowly_—Anders put his lips against the tip of his cock. He opened his eyes, looking up at his face.

Eyes were partway open, mouth parted as his breathing deepened. Anders looked back down at the length in front of him. Whoever had made the markings hadn't been kind enough to leave his genitals alone, and had therefore doomed him to constant pain there as well, but the effect was… nice. Certainly pleasing to look at. Anders parted his lips, breathing, hot and heavily toward his member. The air leaving his lips felt damp to him, and hot. He lapped the head, running his tongue over it. His lips finally enclosed it.

He ran his tongue over him, no longer teasing. He felt Fenris' fingers curl into his hair, holding his head there as if Anders would be so cruel as to move away after so much teasing, and to prevent him from doing so. But Anders had no intentions to move away. He breathed through his nose, using his hand in conjunction with his mouth. He pushed his tongue along him, inch by inch working his way down, putting more of him inside him, coating him with his saliva until it was dripping. He let his teeth scrape only gently and rarely, choosing the places and times he let them scrape with care. With a deep breath, he pushed him back farther, taking a deep breath, relaxing his throat. It had been a while since he had lost done this—hoped he didn't throw up, that'd ruin the mood if nothing else did!

He gagged once, but only once, his throat opening to him, swallowing quickly, devouring him. His lips touched the base, his nose against his pelvis. Fenris was moaning, toes curling, thighs tensing. His head rolled back, staring upwards. His fingers clenched in Anders' hair. His chest heaved with every ragged breath. Abruptly, he let go of him, pushing him back, off of him. Anders gagged again as it came back up, but was otherwise fine. Fenris shoved him down, to the floor, and climbed on top of him. He kissed him again, much more confident this time, driven by the flames of desire and lust.

He tasted himself on Anders' lips, on his tongue. His fingers fumbled trying to pull down his pants. Anders gasped, "I have to take off—Mmm! My boots… Ah…" Fenris grumbled, and eased off of him, crawling around behind him while Anders sat up. The mage started unbuckling his boots, for the first time irritated at how many buckles there were. Was this why Isabela didn't wear pants?

Though, taking off his boots was more of a challenge than it should have been; Fenris seemed to make it his life's mission to distract him, with his hands, lips, and tongue. He kissed Anders' neck, biting along the crook of his neck. The elf's damp cock pushed against Anders' back, eager and impatient as he ran his hands over him, his mouth against his neck. Anders paused his motion to moan, his erection pressed tight against his leg. The elf's arms encircled him, the dripping member pressed against his back in a promise of what was to come. He shivered in anticipation. Another buckle down…

Fenris teased his nipples with both hands until they were taught, then ran his palms down his chest, running along every muscle, every bone, as his lips explored his neck and shoulders. Finally, Anders kicked off one boot, and started on the second. Fenris was growing more and more impatient with Anders' shoes. He licked the back of his neck, his hands falling away from his stomach to support himself as he lapped along his spine, every bone, down to the top of his pants. He tilted his head, kissing the bend in his waist. Anders threw the other boot. It hit something; he didn't look to see what. He turned and pounced in the same movement, lithe as a cat. Fenris caught him, and captured his lips in his, but only for the briefest of kisses. Fenris' hands busily worked at undressing the mage, yanking his pants down to his knees, and struggling past that—it was a terrible position to get them any farther down.

Anders pulled away, just long enough to step out of them. Naked, and ready, he stood in the firelight. Lightning crashed distantly outside, briefly illuminating the room in a flash of light. The rain continued to pour. The mage knelt down, back by Fenris. The saliva, unfortunately, had dried. Well, we couldn't have that. He took him in his mouth again, almost drooling over his member to coat it as quickly as possible. To his surprise, no sooner had he fully coated him then Fenris gripped his hair, pulling him back. Anders breathed a moan as the elf pushed him down, flat on his back. Fenris pushed between his legs, breathing heavy and dark with lust.

The mage let all the tension in his thighs and lower back go—it would be a little rough this way, after all. The elf positioned himself, and with all due haste, pushed into him. Just the head at first. Anders flinched, but his eyes opened, fluttering. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan escaped his lips, his belly tensing automatically. He squirmed as Fenris leaned forward, pushing him farther apart as more of him slid inside him.

His fingers curled into fists, and he writhed under him. His hand clenched on Fenris' shoulder. The elf's eyes opened when he felt all of him nestled inside him, panting with a need he had to fulfill. Anders was hot, and tight around him, and seemed eager to devour him as he pushed against him, and his lips pressed against his. Lips together, he couldn't pound him as hard as he really wanted to, but the kiss carried its own heat, and for a moment, Fenris didn't think he could _get_ more inside him.

He broke away, bracing himself against the floor with one hand. Anders' nails bit into his shoulders as he hammered him to the floor like a nail. The mage's small gasps were like the creak of the boards, punctuated by the occasional moan like the twisting of a nail after a bad blow of the hammer. Not that there _were_ any bad blows…

While Anders had certainly been able to taste the lyrium before, and feel a unique difference in his skin where the veins were, he could definitely feel it inside him. It added a new texture he had never experienced, and the lyrium felt _good_. He twisted, his legs wrapping around his hips, back arching.

If either of them had looked, they also would have seen one more small truth; the lyrium really did shine through anything.

The heat of the fire was nothing compared to the heat that rose between their bodies. Their sweat made their skin glisten in the light of the fire. Their moans, sighs, and muffled cries echoed in the empty hall, temporarily filling it with the ghosts of sounds.

The position felt good, but something primal urged to seek out new ones.

Fenris wrapped his arms around Anders, pulling him up. Anders fumbled to accommodate, and kissed him. Both upright, Anders straddling Fenris. He moved atop him, utterly confident in his abilities, eyes fluttering at the feel of him inside him. It had been entirely too long.

Anders felt his erection drip, pressed between their stomachs. Fenris' hand cupped his ass as he moved against him, pushing him in deeper, arching his back to get at different angles, rubbing against different places. But always, always, seeking to move against the place inside him that felt like he could reach the even the Maker with his cries of ecstasy.

He held on to Fenris' shoulders for support, occasionally bracing himself with his feet against the floor. Somewhere along the line, his hair had come carelessly untied. Unbound, it plastered against his face, sticking to his neck with the sweat, like glue.

They kissed again, all thoughts fleeing in the face of their passion. Anders felt Fenris shift, and lift him, still inside him, and rush to the wall, slamming his back forcefully against it. The wind was driven from his lungs as the elf drove himself hard into him, over and over.

But the position was difficult to maintain, and neither knew how they had got there, but then they were on the bed—which was all the way across the room. Fenris pushed Anders down, on his knees, and climbed over him, gripping his hair in his fist. He pushed back into him, breathing hard.

He was glowing, brightly-as brightly as he did when he was angry. It was amazing how frequently those strong emotions intertwined.

Fenris' other hand trailed down, between the mage's legs, toying with his erection briefly, before he matched his motions with his hand to those he was making with his own cock. His fingers coated him with his own pre-cum and the sweat from his hands. The texture of the lyrium on his hands felt good there too.

Anders felt his legs going numb. All the blood draining to his crotch—the legs were first thing to go. He tried to tell him, he really did. But past the moaning, the panting, and a long scream, he just couldn't. He fell, and Fenris fell on top of him. They were kissing again, rolling, and Anders was looking back up at Fenris.

All thoughts melted away in the passionate embrace. There were no Templars, no hunters, just the feel of another body against their own. In the throes of ecstasy and the kiss of sublimity, their bodies intertwined and were lost, found, gone, present—oblivion and omnipresent, and everything and nothing. Their own identities ceased to matter in the tangled embrace of limbs, salty sweat slickening their skin. In the amber glow of the coals, the beads of sweat glistened like liquid crystals before they were brushed unwittingly away by a brush of the hand as it sought for purchase, a leg brushing against the other.

Anders ran his hands over the other's sweat-streaked back, gripping his tight ass, feeling the hard muscle in his thighs flex and tense as he pounded into him. He kissed the elf again, and slipped his hand down, and a finger outside him. The elf's tongue sought entry to his mouth. Anders gave it, and gladly. His finger penetrated him, the elf tensed briefly, and kept kissing him, moving against him. With an experienced hand, he quickly found the _right_ place inside him that made Fenris gasp, squirm, and then moan against his mouth.

Anders lapped at his neck as he drew back for breath, then smiled. He held on to the elf's shoulders, and rolled, coming up on top. He took a deep breath, and eased off of him. He kissed him again. "My turn," he whispered. Fenris was staring at him, unsure, but also excited. Why wouldn't he be? Anders slid down, pushing his legs up. Ankles balanced against his shoulders. One of his hands came down on the bed for support, his other against his sweat-slicked, throbbing erection. He looked into the other's eyes as he gently pushed into him.

Green eyes squinted shut for a moment as the first inch pushed inside him, then opened, breathing hard. He took a deep breath, then another, as he tried to relax as Anders, oh-so gently eased into him, watching and waiting for any sign of discomfort. There was none—just a brief moment where he felt a little too tight, and then it passed quickly. Anders panted when he felt all of him inside him, and swallowed. He swiped at his brow, and his hand gripped the elf's hip firmly. As he eased partway out, he, again, waited for a reaction before he pushed back in. Slow, hard thrusts at first, appreciating every inch of that dark, hot, tight passage. This was the position he most liked—the one that led to the deepest amount of penetration.

When he was prepared enough to handle more, Anders took a deep breath, and gave it to him. His movements turned to hard, quick motions, moving constantly, hands roving over him. He leaned down, lips against his nipples. He licked his taught nipple, teasing it between his teeth as he ground into him.

Fenris' hands moved over him, touching him, caressing him, burying in his hair for a moment before finding purchase elsewhere. Anders moved inside him, deeper, harder. His pace increased, almost feverishly, desperate in his passion.

The elf cried out to the tune of the thunder outside. A flash lit the room for a moment. They kissed, but it was frequently interrupted with their panting, gasping, and moaning. And they just couldn't kiss at for long at the pace Anders set.

The gale howled outside. Trees bent in the wind. Rain pounded against the roof, rapping against the glass panes. Unexpectedly, a window was rent open by a mighty gale. It banged against the wall, and the two fell to silence, half-expecting it to break. It didn't, and they looked at each other. Anders twisted against him, pushing, lips nibbling on his neck.

The chill air of the gale carried with it the wet kiss of the storm. Water droplets pelted against the carpet. Fenris looked over Anders' shoulder. The mage sighed, irritated, and got off of him, silently fuming. The elf got up, slowly, a little dizzy and unsteady. The mage found himself turning to look, appreciating the other's limber body as he reached up, shutting one pane, then reaching the other. Rain pelted him, water splashing against him, cooling him, making his nipples just a little harder. Anders watched a drop of water drip off of his erection, and he decided that if Fenris were going to take any longer, he was going to go jump on him now.

But the elf came back quickly, lips upturned in a knowing smirk. He touched the mage's shoulders, wordlessly, and guided him back down onto his back.

"I wanted to be on top for a little longer," he complained, before Fenris muffled his voice with his mouth against his, clambering on top of him. But reclaiming his role as seme wasn't what the elf had in mind. Rather, he climbed over him, straddling him, and reached down between Anders' legs, holding him steady. His eyes fluttered a little, skin flushing as he lowered himself onto his hard cock.

The warrior's fingers traced Anders' trembling lips, his back bending, squirming down lower onto him, pushing him deeper inside him. The mage kissed the other's fingertips, then caught them in his mouth. With his tongue, he pulled them into his mouth as he felt his cock slide farther into his one-night lover.

The elf threw his head back, moaning as he rode him, driving him harder into him. The mage's hands roved freely over his body, his heat warming what had been cooled by the rain. The water droplets mingled with sweat, and may have dispersed—who could tell?

Anders moved his hips in time with the other's movements, and sometimes violently against them, shocking him, but pleasantly so. The unexpected in bed was what defined it, after all.

Fenris put his hands against the bed frame, using it to steady himself, and seemed to ignore Anders completely, focusing entirely on himself, his own pleasure. Ignoring if he may or may not even be hurting the mage, ignoring everything else until there _was_ nothing else. It was building, building into…

The elf arched his back as he cried out suddenly.

"I… I'm…" he panted, his glazed, his sweat plastering his hair to skin. He looked absolutely stunning, something unearthly and maybe unholy, but striking, and the best part of it was that it was all for Anders. No one else was seeing it, no one else had caused it. Anders had been one half of the cause of it, Fenris the other.

Anders shuddered. "Oh, yes," he breathed. The alcohol may have what got them in bed together, but that, both knew, was what was limiting their stamina. Anders wanted to feel the other man come in him—had to. He wanted to feel that again, to feel the hot, sticky fluid inside him, to feel him seem to swell, and then go limp. He pulled out of the elf with a squirming motion, lifting the other man by his thighs, a bit regretfully, and switched places with him in a tangled mess of kisses and groping, hand sliding off of the other from their sweat. He gripped the base of his dick, and slid down, sheathing him inside himself.

He moved on top of him. Fenris' hands went to his dick, cupping his testicles, but tried only for a moment. Then his hands slipped away, and couldn't seem to grasp anything beyond the point of sheer ecstasy. His fingers curled around Anders' thigh, his nails dragging across the flesh. He moaned, pushing hard into him, then snatched him by the hair again. He pushed him down, rolling on top of him. He pinned his arms down. Anders wailed when he pounded into him.

Their fingers curled together, though, holding each other as Fenris leaned down to kiss him. Anders moaned, squirming in glee as he felt the other release with a gentle sound against his lips. Gentle the noise may be, but he came hard, and Anders shuddered, muscles tightened with the feel of it. But then…

Fenris had been glowing—brightly—the entire time. Suddenly, not just his hand, but his whole body seemed to pass—for no longer than an instant, into Anders, everywhere they touched. A higher level of intimacy had never been achieved.

For an instant, their bodies were truly one. For an instant, there was nothing else in the world. For an instant, Fenris felt Justice's passive presence.

An instant it may have been, but to them it felt like a strange eternity. Fenris wasn't trying to hurt Anders, and so no harm came to him. They were both stripped bare, in more ways than just their naked body, before the other. They shared nothing, and, in a small way, everything.

Hopes, emotions, ambition—their minds themselves tumbled past in a hysteric rush.

Memories too—nothing the other could make sense of. Anders saw garbled images of Fenris' life. Through Justice alone, he could make sense of a few images—usually nothing. The memories weren't always relevant. Sometimes, it was something as simple as falling asleep, glancing up at the sky. Things he could relate to himself, he could make some vague sense of it, but nothing else. Faces made no sense to him and his mind couldn't catch it. Justice flared with anger sometimes—he guessed that part of him could see more than the rest. What injustices had Fenris suffered? Anders had never bothered to ask, or care. But, in that moment, Justice cared—deeply. Anders couldn't even understand all of it, even with Justice. It made such little sense, and none of it, he suspected, was in order. Anders also sensed his own life flitting past, but he considered it to be unimportant—he knew all of that already.

Fenris saw flashes of Anders' life—jumbled up pictures that flew by too quickly for him to make any sense of. Sometimes, he could make out colours, but no more than that. At the same time, he could see his own life… all of it.

Anders' magic, and Justice, had sought out the injustice that was in Fenris' mind—his sealed memories. His power ripped through the barrier in a torrential rush that matched the downpour outside. For an instant, the seal lay shattered and he remembered. Remembered everything. His real name. A home… Arms that had picked him up, laughing, and said… And said…

At first, it was alarming. Then comforting. _He knew who he was_.

Then, abruptly, the instant was gone, leaving both of them reeling, falling away from each other, breathing hard and confused. Anders had apparently come in that instant, though scarcely remembered it. They looked at each other, and could say nothing.

Fenris, though, felt at a desperate loss. It was gone. All of it was gone again. The barrier hadn't been broken, only breached, and temporarily. He stared down, contemplating his loss.

"Fuck," he hissed, then tilted his head up, to look at the ceiling. Thunder sounded outside, like a deep bass drum. "Fuck!" he screamed in answer to the sound.

Anders, though, didn't have to ask. He had felt the seal break too, and also felt it repair itself. "I… I could try again," he offered. "If I know what to look for…"

"No," he whispered, shaking his head, as if in pain. His eyes closed. "I couldn't… bear to remember everything, only to lose it all a third time."

Anders reached toward him, to comfort him. His fingers barely brushed his arm when he pulled away. He dropped his arm. He didn't know what to say. Everything had been amazing, just a moment ago. And now… Now… "Do you want me to leave?" he asked, and knew as soon as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

Fenris turned from him, staring at the dying coals in the fire. The orange embers danced in his eyes, and he rose from the bed on briefly unsteady legs. He walked over to it, pulling wood from the pile. He tossed it on, and poked at it with the poker, absently. "Yes… No…" he said, and shook his head. Thunder crashed again, lighting up the room. The glow from Fenris's skin had faded back to its normal, soft glow. The rain gushed down. They could hear it in the gutter, running off the roof. He crossed his arms, uncertainly.

Anders' eyebrows went up, and he tried to simply be honest. "I'm tired of being alone at night," he said softly. "I'd like to stay, if you'll have me."

The elf looked up, still uncertain. He took a hesitant step forward, then paused. "I… I'll sleep elsewhere." He started to turn, to flee the room. _Do I run from everything, even myself?_ Fenris wondered, heart heavy.

"Wait," Anders pleaded. The elf hesitated. He wouldn't hesitate if he were certain. "Don't you ever want someone to hold you, even for a night?"

He turned, looking back at him, and then stared down at the floor. He was scared, he realized with a growing sense of self-disgust. He was genuinely afraid to have sex again, lest it happen again. Afraid that sleeping in the same bed with the mage would lead to another round in the morning, or even later tonight. _Afraid_.

Anders had climbed out of the bed, and he felt his hands touch his arms. Fenris looked up at him wearily. Anders was looking at him, the most forlorn expression on his face imaginable. The elf felt himself sigh in something like defeat, and stepped into his arms, leaning his head against his shoulder. But, no, not defeat exactly—he was trying to conquer his own fear. _I can't run from everything. I'm so tired of running._

Both of them were, though neither spoke about it.

Morning found them both tangled in the sheets, Anders cuddled up against Fenris' back.

Both were sick with a hangover.

_Isabela giggled to herself as she re-read the twenty-some odd pages she had just wrote, sipping at her drink appreciatively. She grinned as she finished it. And a job well done!_

_As she added a finishing touch here and there, striking out a line she didn't like, the door to the pub opened. She glanced up automatically. It was Fenris, though she wasn't concerned; he couldn't read what she had written anyway, and Varric certainly wouldn't tell him. Varric read many of her stories, and told her that she should think about going into composing short works of sexual fiction sometimes._

_She had considered it, briefly, but too frequently liked writing about her friends—much more interesting than historic figures or characters she would have to make up. She had at least one story for every one of her friends so far, and was always adding more. So many pairings to make, so many possibilities… Though she, honestly, disliked writing about herself. It was entirely too much like real life._

_As he came and sat down across from her, she casually flipped the book closed, setting her pen beside the inkwell. She smiled jauntily at him, her gaze wandering from his eyes down to his neck, trailing down his chest, eying him like a cat in heat eyed a handsome tom. And if the table hadn't interfered with her line of sight, her gaze may have lingered between his legs._

_Oh, if only he knew… But she wasn't about to tell him._


	2. Chapter 2

The enemies swarmed around them. The sound of blades clashing against blades filled the area—a shield being battered. Aveline held her own against many , bashing them with her shield and attacking with her sword. Her armor was earning its upkeep today. She swung 'round, ramming her shield into two of the bandits, knocking them down. She charged forward fearlessly, and why not? She was, after all, captain of the guard, and had been a soldier for years now, and it would take more than bandits to bring her down.

The unique sound of flesh being sheared from bone, and the splatter of blood and entrails hung in the air—not to mention the foul smell of bandit innards as Isabela sliced through many a stomach, splashing their messy insides upon the ground. She danced gracefully out of the way, to avoid being splattered with it when she could, though she made such messy kills that she never walked away from battle clean. Though, the ex-pirate captain must be used to being dirty—a life at sea wasn't suited to proper bathing.

Fenris stood out like a beacon, even in the day. But, then again, he always did. He glowed from head to toe, brighter than a lantern, as always in battle. It didn't matter that he was wearing all of his armor. It was true what he had said; the markings would always show, despite any attempt to hide them. Enemies swarmed to him to attack, but sometimes were afraid to. After all, what would happen? Would the light blind them? If they cut him, and his blood were to spill upon them, would it burn or poison? He was a light amongst the dark armor of the bandits. One would think that the blood on him would dim the light, but it didn't.

And, being chased by enemies, and thus quite vulnerable, was Hawke, the apostate. He managed to get only a handful of seconds ahead of his pursuers—the others were far too engaged in their own fights to save him from the melee attacks this time. He took a deep breath and cast. There was a moment where he was all-too exposed, then, the lightning struck. His pursuers and, indeed the bandits near him, all froze as the lightning ran through them.

A small triumph. He cast again, furiously, dangerously, every spell he knew, but he couldn't just keep casting. There would be a few seconds when he could cast nothing at all, but he could still hit things with his staff. He heard a cry as Isabela slit a man's throat. Hawke only looked for a moment, but she seemed to be just fine. He continued his furious assault, too busy with his own problems to come to their rescues. He saw Aveline break free of her attackers, charging through his, breaking their line. She stood in front of him, protecting him, as a proper defender should.

_Wall of meat_, he thought to himself. Not that he would _ever_ say such a thing out loud, lest they take offense. But that was what melee warriors were to a mage; meat that stood between them and the actual battle.

Not that he really thought of them as _meat_. No, they were friends, comrades. They were important to him. But, in terms of a battle, "meat." And, naturally, they were more useful than actual _meat_. _Unless he were starving…_ Nope, still meat.

The bandits, though, just seemed to keep coming. Out of Mana—well, shit. He used a potion, the last one, and prayed that there weren't any more bandits. He cast again, and healed the party. Now that everyone was refreshed, he shouldn't have to heal them for a while, at least. It left him room to attack, once he had distanced himself a bit from the attackers.

The skirmish that had quickly turned into a battle raged on as the bandit gang turned into a horde as their own comrades came to their defense. And, while the four of them were skilled, they were very much outnumbered.

He saw Isabela take a sharp blow to the head. She stumbled, then swayed, and fell into the dirt. He swore aloud, "Andraste's tits, damn it all." Well, he could revive her when he could—perhaps when all the enemies weren't gravitating towards him.

"Aveline! Fenris!" he called for aid. Fenris either didn't hear him, or decided that he didn't care as he was wont to do, because he just kept attacking the two engaging his attention. Aveline, however, broke her position to come to his aid, and a good thing, because he was almost overtaken.

One of the bandits ran at him. He couldn't get out of the way in time, but fortunately, the bigger man tripped. His shoulder slammed into Hawke's chest, knocking Hawke back. He heard something crack, and half-expected to feel the sharp pain of a rib cracking, but he didn't, which meant that it was his amulet, and not bone-but there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely, Aveline was rather overwhelmed. He used the last of his Mana to set all the attackers aflame. Aveline cut through them mercilessly, and Fenris joined her now that he had dispatched the ones who had previously occupied him.

Then, a lucky shot. A bandit, struck Aveline in the side with a heavy club. Aveline stumbled backwards and fell, unconscious, to the ground. It would be the bandit's last move, because Fenris quickly ran him through with his sword. In the end, only the mage and elf were left standing.

Hawke panted, trying to catch his breath. He wiped his brow. Fenris stopped to clean his feet. Fenris, like nearly every elf in the world, wore more of the traditional elven fashions whenever possible—that is, a tunic, leggings, and no shoes—but in all the wrong colours. It meant, basically, that his feet became consistently dirty, particularly in the bloodied sand. The mage looked around the battlefield doubtfully with a grim expression adorning his face.

He glanced sidelong at Fenris. "Y'know, you could just wear _shoes_ then you wouldn't have blood caked under your toenails all the time." _Which would one day result in a trip to Ander's clinic to treat infection—not something Hawke would want to miss; it was bound to be hilarious. _But elves had some natural immunity to things like that; they'd been stubbornly not wearing shoes for thousands of years, after all.

"But then, how could I ever live to call myself an 'elf' if I were not in tune with nature?" Fenris replied, his voice dripping sarcasm like honey.

He inspected the bodies of the fallen bandits, but didn't find anything of any particular use amongst them—which wasn't of any good news for his fallen comrades, or himself for that matter.

He heaved a sigh, staring at Isabela and Aveline. "So," he said, twisting the word around in his mouth like a snake around a rat as he sought the best way to word the problem aloud. "We have a bit of a problem, Fenris."

Fenris glanced over at him. "What?" he asked, not really all that interested.

Hawke hesitated. Fenris chose to tolerate him as a mage, but only under… circumstances. One of those circumstances lay in not acting very mage-like and occasionally being hard on other apostates, which was one of the few ways Hawke had managed to get Fenris to like him _at all_. "I'm…" He paused a moment. "Out of mana…"

Fenris clearly didn't get it. "I don't see the problem," he responded, and went to scrubbing at his sword instead of his previously blood-coated feet.

Hawke considered how he could properly illuminate this issue to Fenris in a way that the elf would understand. "We forgot to go shopping before we left," he went on. At this point, Fenris simply labeled Hawke's words as "meaningless drivel" in his mind and was only halfway listening at best. "Point being, we are out of lyrium potions."

There was a pause. Fenris looked at Hawke out of the corner of his eyes. He was clearly waiting for a response and seemed to be content to sit there staring at him until the elf made some sort of retort, which made the renegade somewhat uncomfortable. "Your point being?" he asked, voice bland and uninterested, even though the issue seemed to be troubling Hawke. Hawke may be his friend and all, as much as he was willing to consider a mage his friend, but the issue at hand was still "mage business" all the same.

Hawke's eyebrow twitched in annoyance. "I can't revive Isabela and Aveline," he said, in a manner that implied that he was stating the obvious. To someone who had actually bothered to consider his words, it would have been obvious, _and_ the problem would have been clear—and labeled as a problem at that.

However, this was sadly not the case. Fenris shrugged one shoulder. "That's all right. They're rather unsavory anyway."

Hawke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, we can't just _leave_ them there."

Fenris paused briefly, inspecting his sword. "I thought you had a Mana regeneration amulet equipped," he said conversationally.

Hawke lifted the amulet in question from his neck, dangling it by its chain from two fingers. "It's broken," he stated flatly. Fenris gave the amulet a cursory glance to see how broken it was. It was, indeed, quite broken—nearly split in two in fact. "I think it might even be _draining _Mana."

Fenris went back to scrubbing at his sword. "Then get rid of it," he said, as if all the world's problems were so simple. Must make life that much easier.

Hawke decided to ignore Fenris' last statement, for the moment, as the amulet was _not_ the issue at hand. "Well, what do we do about _them_?" he demanded, gesturing to their fallen comrades with the amulet.

Fenris paused as he considered the dilemma. "Let's just leave them here," he said, shrugging the matter off.

Hawke stared at him, appalled at the suggestion. "For the wolves to eat them?" he asked incredulously.

The elf regarded him coolly. "What self-respecting wolf would voluntarily eat _Isabela_?" he said, quite serious. "And Aveline, of course, is wearing all that armor, so she isn't exactly… edible."

Hawke stared at him. "A good time to develop a sense of humor, Fenris," he muttered, then, "But a good point anyway. But what about bandits?"

Fenris paused as he considered this, but didn't really think about it very hard. "We… can stick them in a ditch and cover it with something."

Hawke wasn't quite certain of what to say. He stared at Fenris for a moment, blinking and wondering if he had heard him correctly. He decided that, yes, he had indeed heard the fugitive correctly. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Fenris said, with the utmost sincerity. So, not only did he seem to be serious, he also seemed to think that it was a good idea. Wonderful.

"That sounds _safe_," Hawke said with a hint of sarcasm. "What if you stay here and I run back for more potions?"

Fenris hissed a laugh at the suggestion. "And, what? You get three yards before you run—screaming—back? With bandits and slavers chasing you because you can't cast?"

Hawke crossed his arms, the broken amulet dangling from his hand. "Well, you can't go and leave me either—for the same reasons."

Fenris went back to polishing his sword, as he decided that they may not be leaving for a while. Hawke, however, paused in thought. Fenris could practically feel Hawke's eyes on him, drilling into the back of his skull like a woodpecker on a tree. He sighed. "I suppose… We could drag them," he suggested, making a vague attempt at being useful.

Hawke looked at the two fallen warriors. He looked back at Fenris, raising an eyebrow. "Because that's _totally_ feasible. And practical. Especially when we get jumped," he answered.

Fenris pursed his lips together, growing irritated. "I don't see _you_ coming up with anything better, _mage_."

Coming from him, that was dangerously close to an insult. From anyone else, Hawke would have accepted it as nothing more than "calling him what he was." It would be like calling Fenris "elf." If he wanted to play that game, though, Hawke could very easily start calling him "slave." But that was unfair—and kind of cruel. Furthermore, it wasn't worth it.

Hawke paced a bit, looking around at what was available. "Let's… get out of here. There are crows gathering," he pointed out, glancing up at the growing murder of crows.

Fenris stood up, sticking his sword onto his back, where it magically floated for no readily apparent reason. No one ever actually questioned that sort of thing though. Weaponry just seemed to float, and it always had. Why question such things?

"I'll take Isabela," Hawke said quickly.

Fenris made a face. "Why do _you_ get the lightweight?"

"You just want to stare down her shirt," Hawke bantered.

"And you don't?" Fenris said accusingly, as if the other had been found guilty.

Hawke laughed. "I've _seen_ what's down Isabela's shirt already," he reminded him.

"Catch a disease from that? I think you should pay Anders a visit."

Hawke threw the amulet at Fenris' head. Fenris jerked his head to the side, and it missed, hitting the ground some distance behind him. Though the projectile missed, the point still stood. "It's a good thing you're a mage, and not an archer."

"Shut up," Hawke suggested.

The two heaved the unconscious duo over the hill, away from the watchful dark eyes of the birds. The entrails and dead bodies were stinking anyway, and the wind was blowing in just the right direction here that it was considerably more tolerable. But, they still had a dilemma at hand.

Hawke looked down at the fallen half of their party, lined up beside each other. He glanced at Fenris, who was keeping a vigilant eye on the surroundings. Hawke sighed to himself. What a time to be out of Mana! Not to mention that, now, they were pretty well stuck here. He knew that the city guard had patrols that came around here at night, but that was hours away, and perhaps longer if the guard took their time.

Moreover, wouldn't that look nice? Two men with two unconscious women? They'd be lucky if they weren't arrested outright.

If only they had bought some more potions before they left-or if he were a blood mage, he could convert his Health to Mana. Tempting. Oh, Fenris would just _love_ that. Still, Hawke decided to throw it out there as an option, just so he could say that he tried.

"Well," the apostate said suddenly. Fenris turned his head partway to look at him. "If I were a _blood mage_, I could convert my Health to Mana and—"

Fenris cut him off. "That's a _great_ idea," he interjected.

The mage sighed heavily. "It's more practical than _dragging_ them all the way back to Kirkwall."

Fenris blinked slowly. "Yes. Making pacts with demons is _always_ practical," he pretended to agree.

Hawke fell back into silence. _There must be _some_ way._ He looked around, pacing a step or two in any direction, but settling on none. Fenris went back to being a heedful watchdog—old habits die hard, one would suppose. He had used to be a body guard, after all. Hawke's eyes rested briefly on Isabela and Aveline, unconscious and totally at their mercy. They were both _women_. When awake, very reliable, strong women. But unconscious? He needed to revive and heal them, and he needed Mana to do it. He couldn't just _leave_ them here for bandits, wolves, and slavers!

If it had been Varric and Carver or something, he wouldn't be so concerned. Concerned, all the same, but not _quite_ so much.

He continued to look around the area for anything that might be useful in solving this problem. His gaze settled on Fenris. More precisely, the lyrium markings on his skin, now glowing softly, and not the bright beacon he had been during the battle.

Fenris, however, wasn't looking at him, but at the surroundings. When he noticed Hawke's eyes on him, he turned and scowled at him. Hawke smiled impishly, a plan beginning to unfurl in his mind.

"What?" Fenris barked—a good analogy, considering his namesake.

Hawke stepped closer to Fenris. "As you complain of constantly, _you_ have _lots_ of lyrium, right?"

Fenris paused, regarding him suspiciously. "Yes…" he answered, though in a tone that implied that he did not particularly wish to answer but could find no reason not to.

The apostate took another step in his direction, beginning to lean toward him slightly. He smiled innocently. "Oh, nothing. I was just wondering…" The innocent smile turned sly. "Would you be horribly offended if I licked your arm?" he asked in his most innocent, I-have-no-ulterior-motive voice.

Fenris wasn't quite certain of how to respond to this, as his life so far had not done anything to prepare him to know how to react when someone requested to _lick_ him. His face made a short series of incredulous facial expressions before finally settling safely on "confused." He responded, "Offended? No…"

Hawke was intentionally oblivious to Fenris' obvious discomfort and confusion. "Great!" he exclaimed. "Give me your arm." He reached for the elf's left arm.

Fenris pulled his arm closer to his torso, taking two steps back at the same time. He regarded Hawke as if he had just offered him a cold, dead cat.

"What's wrong?" Hawke asked, clearly having no idea of how asking to lick a person's arm could be regarded as "insane." Of course, he was a mage, and, as such, drank lyrium potions. And it wasn't exactly a _huge_ secret that lyrium caused people to become "mentally-abled," so make what you will of that. What this means for Fenris is anyone's guess.

Fenris paused, again unsure of quite how to react to Hawke's latest burst of insanity. "No," he said firmly. "Lick someone else's arm."

Hawke scowled. "No one else has lyrium on their arms!" he complained. Fenris didn't deign to reply. The idea of Hawke licking his_ arm_ for the sake of replenishing his Mana was not one that he was fond of—damned mages anyway.

Hawke glanced down at the elf's arm, which was covered in clothing and spiky armor—quite inaccessible, except for the underside. In fact, the only bits of Fenris that were really easily accessible were his neck, face, the underside of his upper arms, a small stripe on his back, and, interestingly enough, feet. "Right," he said slowly. "Well, I could lick your _neck_ but that might be weird."

Fenris frowned, again not knowing what to say. "Ah…" he stuttered, because asking someone to lick their _arm_ certainly wasn't "weird."

Hawke sighed but didn't completely abandon the idea. "What if…" His brow creased in thought as he stared intently at Fenris, determined to somehow put that living storehouse of lyrium to use. Danarius had done it—why couldn't he? He sighed inwardly. Because he didn't want to use Fenris like that, that's why. If he could only get Fenris to _consent_, it would be different, wouldn't it? He wouldn't be taking something from him without asking, he would be asking, and if Fenris agreed, being given it freely. But Hawke couldn't just stand still and draw on Fenris' lyrium like this. He didn't know how. How did Danarius do it—if he had? He didn't dare ask Fenris—it was a touchy subject.

But Fenris practically _was_ a living lyrium supply. What if he just… "What if I drank some of your blood?" Hawke asked suddenly.

Fenris stared at him, aghast. "What part of 'lyrium is poisonous' do you not understand?" he demanded.

Hawke was undaunted by the elf's outburst. "I drink lyrium potions all the time to no ill affect." So he claims.

Fenris sighed to himself. Hawke was behaving like a dog with a bone, and wasn't about to let this go. Fenris _knew_ he was sort of like a battery for mages if they could figure out how to use him as such, but why couldn't the apostate just figure something else out? "No. Absolutely not."

Hawke pouted. "Just… bleed into a cup. I'll… water it down or something," he said.

The elf felt offended at the idea. "No!" he insisted, growing irritated.

Hawke, however, was growing ingenuitive. "Well, suppose I stomped really hard on your foot—and made you cry? Then I could lick the tears off your face."

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "I hope you're joking."

Hawke shook his head. "You should know better." He glanced down at the warrior's rather exposed feet and advanced toward him, obviously prepared to stomp viciously down on his toes. Fenris' toes curled inward automatically in response. "Now hold still."

Fenris stepped back several paces, and only then relaxed, but kept a watchful eye on the mage. Hawke sighed, exasperated. "Well, you're sweaty, right? I could try licking your forehead," he suggested, obviously having grown desperate for Mana. _Mages_ _and their Mana._ And how was licking a person's forehead less awkward than licking an arm or neck, anyway?

The broody elf made a face. Hawke threw his hands up in the air. "And you don't like that idea either!" he exclaimed, staring upwards, as if beseeching divine help from above. He may have had better luck asking the divine.

"Just… leave them here," he tried suggesting once more. "We can come back."

Hawke stared at Fenris flatly. "Would you want me to leave _you_ lying around unconscious in a ditch somewhere?" he asked, crossing his arms. Fenris glanced at Aveline and Isabela without responding. It didn't really warrant a response; he just _couldn't_ be left unconscious in a ditch, not with all those damned hunters after him all the time. That would make their jobs easy, though, wouldn't it? "Didn't think so." Hawke smiled devilishly. "What about your saliva?"

Fenris turned to look at him, not quite believing what he had heard. "You… want to… ingest… my… _spit_?"

"Well, if you put it _that_ way, it just sounds disgusting," Hawke said, though spitting into his mouth was not at all what he had in mind. Hawke's plan had less projectile spit, and more lip and tongue action.

"Indeed," Fenris mused.

Hawke smiled pleasantly. Fenris was, by now, suspicious of these smiles. "Of course, there _are_ _other_ bodily fluids you have…"

Fenris sort of twitched. "Please don't finish that thought."

Hawke huffed indignantly. "I'm not referring to water play or scat, you pervert!" he interjected. "Dear Maker, what do you take me for?

The other decided that it may be in both of their best interests if he didn't deign to respond to that question. Fenris glanced at him. "Then what are you suggesting?" he asked slowly, though he knew perfectly well, as there were only so many bodily fluids left on the list they had not eliminated.

Hawke moved toward him, but slowly this time, eyes locked on his. He leaned forward and did something that, honestly, he didn't see himself doing so soon. He pushed his lips against Fenris'. They were unyielding, and didn't move against his. Cold, unyielding as marble, utterly immovable. Hawke leaned in closer, running his tongue along his lower lip. Still, the elf didn't move, didn't give ground. He would have wrapped his arms around him, but all the armor kept him that much farther away. Well, the armor, obviously, would have to go.

Hawke dropped his staff on the sand. He pulled away, looking at Fenris. The elf's face had gone very carefully blank, but he wasn't looking away, and he hadn't backed away either, though he could have. "The armor will have to go," Hawke said seriously.

Fenris' lips twitched in what hinted at a sly smile. "It's easiest with… assistance," he said.

"I'll help you," Hawke promised. Fenris gently tossed his sword upon the sand. But, whereas he was careful with his weaponry, he wasn't quite so gentle as he urged Hawke out of his robes. Why were mages fond of wearing robes anyway?

Anders, of course, had the answer to that: It was just that much easier to have sex without having to undo laces or buttons.

The elf's hands went to the belt at the mage's waist, getting right to the point. Hawke was surprised, but pleasantly so. Fenris was only partially encumbered by his gloves. The belt hit the sand. Fenris started to peel off the robe, but Hawke danced away, then stepped toward him again, laughing gently and shaking his head.

"It would hardly be fair if I were naked and you were still wearing all that spiky armor," he said. He reached toward Fenris, running a finger across his silken lips. They were soft now. He wondered how much it would take before they became chapped? If that was his goal, he had best get started.

He pushed his lips back against the elf's, crushing his mouth. He licked along the lower lip, nibbling playfully when he thought he could get away with it. The mage ran his fingers along Fenris' stomach, down to the belt buckle. He fumbled with it blindly for a moment, then he pulled the belt free. Laden with small bags as it was, it was heavy, and made a loud thumping sound when it fell. Sand swirled briefly around their feet.

Fenris ran his tongue along Hawke's lips, prying for entry. Hawke pushed his tongue against his, pushing his way into Fenris' mouth, but gently at first, and then the kiss became more demanding, urgent.

The armor had to come off before anything else could. Fenris dexterously peeled off his gloves without breaking the kiss, but neither could quite remove the armor. They pulled away, but only because they had to. The feel of one another's lips seemed to linger and during the brief moments of separation, seemed to call for further contact. Even as the armor was stripped off, they would kiss between breaths.

Armor gone, Fenris clutched the apostate's robes, drawing him in for another long, passionate kiss. No longer separated by his breastplate, Hawke pulled Fenris closer, one of his arms encircling him, and the other running along his thigh. Fenris ran his hands along the mage's back, and along his chest. He pulled back for breath, and instead of leaning in for another kiss, turned his head to the side, and pushed his lips against Hawke's neck. He ran his tongue along the bend in his neck, and gently bit down, teasing the skin. His lips gave a sucking kiss as his tongue caressed the other's skin. Hawke gasped softly, but didn't stop what he was doing. His fingers found the frog closures on Fenris' tunic.

He hurried to get them undone, but Fenris' lips found his ear. His tongue ran lightly along the lobe and Hawke made a small cry, moaning. He could feel the elf's breath against his neck and in his hair, his breathing deepening with need. He hadn't thought it would be this easy… There had been _some_ sexual tension building between them for quite some time though, and now it was just a perfect excuse for intimacy—personal feelings aside.

"That's awfully distracting," Hawke gasped.

Fenris' lips caught his ear lobe, his tongue lapping it. He let go, whispering, "Then perhaps I should do it again…" Lips traced the curve of his ear, his deep even breathing matching the pulse in his veins. He felt excited, but somehow impossibly calm suddenly. His fingers were steadier against the closures as he matched his breathing to the other's.

The elf's breathing suddenly quickened when Hawke traced his fingers lightly from the lip of his pants, up along his torso, over the hard muscle. Hawke pulled off his gloves, irritated at the restriction, immediately more satisfied at the contact when he put his fingers back against Fenris' chest. The mage was surprised that Fenris' skin was so soft. If one thing about the world had favored elves over humans, it was beauty—one of their race's downfalls in truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Hawke tilted his head, catching Fenris' lips in his before he could keep teasing his neck and ear. Fenris' hands ran over the robes, tugging at the cloth impatiently. If he had had his gloves on, it would have at least snagged, possibly even ripped. A moan escaped the elf's lips as Hawke traced a steady circle around one of his nipples. His other hand pushed against the tunic, pushing it slowly off of his shoulders, exposing his chest. Hawke's eyes slid open—he didn't want to miss the "unveiling."

Fenris, though, stopped, and pulled away, still mostly in the tunic. He kissed Hawke again, briefly—a chaste kiss, then pulled back, his fingers running from Hawke's shoulders down to his waist. Fenris kneeled, his fingers trailing down the robes, to the hem. He peered up at Hawke, blinking up at him in a way that just made Hawke want to finish ripping off his clothes and… Well, they'd get to that.

His fingers curled around the hem, and he rose, very gracefully and without pushing up on his knees with his hands—the way only a dancer should have, or maybe a warrior used to carrying a blade. The movement was very smooth as he lifted off the first and heaviest layer of the mage's robes.

The fabric was lifted over his head, and he had to raise his arms to accommodate. Fenris lifted it over, and it rustled as it fell to the ground in a heap near them. Just as quickly as he had let go of it, Fenris ran his hands over the lighter robe Hawke wore underneath of the heavier one. He kissed Hawke's neck. The apostate pushed his hands under the leather of Fenris' tunic, shoving it off of his shoulders. He pushed it down to the crook of Fenris' arms. Fenris paused with his movement suddenly so restricted by the leather.

Hawke couldn't help but smile. "Hmm," he murmured appreciatively, suddenly feeling inventive. His fingers gripped the leather, pulling tighter. The fabric strained briefly, and Hawke was able to pull the elf's arms down, away from him. His eyebrow arched curiously, but looked down at Fenris' naked torso, fully appreciating the view.

Keeping a steady grip on the leather that was binding Fenris' arms, he leaned down, kissing Fenris' chest, dead center. He moved his head, his tongue flicking against his nipple. As his mouth covered it, his tongue caressed it gently. The elf's skin was surprisingly soft, considering he didn't do much to take care of it, and considering his warrior nature, but not unblemished. There were tiny scars in places—battle scars most likely, and more recent bruises taken in battle. Hawke ran his tongue along a line of lyrium. The lines were slightly raised on his skin, like a large vein. Merril was right; they were very much like the Dalish markings—very earthy.

"Hawke…" The apostate looked up. Fenris had a… look on his face—caught somewhere between pleasure and discomfort. It took Hawke a moment, but he released his arms. Had he cut off the circulation? He hadn't _thought_ that he was pulling that tight…

"Sorry—did I hurt you?" Hawke asked, leaning up, his hands moving down to Fenris' lovely waistline, the tips of his fingers trailing gently against the smooth skin, in places between the markings.

Fenris shifted and the tunic fell to his feet. He looked down. "No," he said, and his eyes raised to look up at him. Hawke very nearly didn't hear the next thing he said, not with those pretty eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, his lips curved into a sad pout. "I don't like being restrained—don't do it again." The human recognized his tone of voice—bad memories, maybe.

Hawke chose to ignore the tone—he didn't want to cater to it; it made Fenris… mopey. Before Fenris could get a chance to slip into his brooding nature, Hawke kissed him again. Past grievances apparently forgotten, Fenris returned the kiss, deepening it, his tongue sliding against Hawke's lips, pushing past his teeth.

Hawke's arms encircled the elf, sort of glad that _he_ was the bigger man. His fingers ran along Fenris' back, but quickly—almost automatically, started tracing the lyrium lines. Fenris stopped, turning his head.

Hawke resisted the desire to sigh deeply upon the moody look on the other's face. He suppressed any sarcastic remarks and asked, as nicely and sincerely as he could muster, "What's wrong?"

Fenris' face shifted into an adorable sulky look. Hawke wanted to kiss those pouty lips until they were so chapped they were painful, but now was obviously not the time. "Would you be so eager to bed me if you weren't out of Mana?"

Hawke groaned inwardly. _Please don't be so Maker-be-damned moody right now! You are way too sensitive for a man!_ "Fenris, I've been subtly trying to get in your pants for the past… two fucking years."

Fenris turned, blinking at him as if he hadn't quite seen him before. "What?"

_Oblivious_, Hawke thought, slightly irritated but at the same time just wanting to finish undressing him. "You heard me," he said flatly.

The elf looked down. "Oh."

Hawke sighed. "What's this _really_ about?" he asked, his hands falling to his sides helplessly.

A blush began around the elf's neck and ears, creeping steadily towards his face. The apostate couldn't help but smile softly, while he thought of all the things he wanted to do to Fenris in the next hour or two. "Well, I've never…"

Hawke almost asked him, "what" but as the blush indicated, he caught on to what the rest of that sentence should be. _Never licked a lamppost in winter…_ "Oh!" he exclaimed, in a manner that deepened the blush. _Fuck, I want these clothes off! I want to push that little broody bastard down in the sand and fuck his brains out-and he keeps stopping me!_ "So… Why not?"

"I never trusted anyone enough," he said, raising his head and looked at Hawke dead-on with that wide-eyed darkly innocent expression. Hawke felt like he might just melt into a gooey apostate-puddle.

"You can trust _me_," the apostate said as sweetly as he could manage while he was thinking of all the nasty things he wanted to do to that little virgin. He thought that if Fenris wanted to back out now, he might just end up raping him. He didn't want to, but damn it, if Fenris was going to keep looking at him with those huge pretty puppy eyes, half-naked…

"I know," he said, and Hawke didn't know if he should feel relieved or feel like shit for thinking about raping Fenris a moment ago. Well, what he doesn't know can't hurt him…

"So…" Hawke took a cautious step toward him, like approaching a strange dog.

For a moment, Fenris seemed like he might take a step back to keep the space between them, but then he stepped into Hawke's arms, unquestioningly, completely trusting him. Something must be done about all these clothes…

Hawke kissed Fenris, effectively sealing the deal as it were, his hands fumbling with those tight leather pants, all too eager to get them off of him as quickly as possible.

Fenris broke away. "Boots first," he insisted.

Hawke made a face, looking down at Fenris' feet. "They're… not boots… They're little… footy things," he said, as articulate as always. He didn't have to look up to know that Fenris rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine!" Hawke moved down, his hands running down the elf's bare chest, down past the leather. He knelt in front of him, kissing the other's taught stomach. His tongue rolled down to the lip of his pants, cleverly darted between the skin and fabric, earning him a small noise from the back of Fenris' throat. While his mouth was otherwise occupied, his hands gripped the other's firm thighs, massaging the muscle, working over his knees, all the way down to the ankle, and back up, making sure to touch every part, memorizing every muscle, and delighting in the idea of how different it would feel without the leather between them.

He felt Fenris' hands clench on his robe, yanking the fabric impatiently upward. Hawke had to pull away to get the last layer off. The robe was tossed in the growing pile of discarded clothing. Hawke gripped Fenris' hips as he rose to his feet. The boots came all the way up to his thighs, blending in quite nicely with his pants so Hawke had never noticed before. The only easy way off would be for Fenris to either be sitting or on his back. Hawke liked the latter idea _much_ better.

The mage kissed the elf, and, gently, hands on the other's shoulders, urged him downward. He went not exactly unwillingly, but was unsure. Well, if it really _was_ his first time, at least that he could remember, that wouldn't be totally abnormal. And he was all too anxious to nail this self-proclaimed virgin to the ground…!

He pushed Fenris down on his back against the warm sand, his lips locked against his, for the moment. He moved his body over his, shuddering softly at the feel of so much of their skin against each other. The elf's fingernails dug into his shoulders in apprehension. Hawke pushed his groin against Fenris', a sort of prelude of what was to come.

The elf gasped away from Hawke's lips, moaning. The human took it as an opportunity to move away—Fenris was entirely too clothed for this to work. He kissed his way down to Fenris' pants—something he didn't think he'd be likely to get tired of anytime soon.

The elf's hands caressed his shoulders. Hawke looked up at him as he sat up, to kiss Hawke. His hands were callused from the sword as his fingers swept over his chest. Hawke had to move blindly, pulling off one "boot" with a bit of a struggle before Fenris let go of his lips. The apostate went to the other one and removed it without so much difficulty. He remembered his own shoes at the last moment, wondering if he should… Well, he might accidentally kick Fenris or something, so it was only fair. Besides, the dunes of the beach were warm. He kicked off his own boots, his toes burying in the warm sand almost without conscious thought. There was something delightful about walking on sand barefoot that just had to be appreciated from time to time.

His socks had came off with his boots, leaving him in nothing but the simple cotton underwear, and he was all too eager to get that off too. He looked back to Fenris, who was waiting patiently for him. His gaze slid down to the top of his pants, and the fact that they were unlaced and open now did not go over Hawke's head. His fingers teased into the opening, sliding over his skin. That Fenris didn't wear underwear was a pleasant surprise, though one he imagined couldn't be comfortable with all that leather.

Hawke quirked a smile. "Isn't it uncomfortable with the leather when you sweat—not wearing underwear I mean?"

Fenris got… _that_ look on his face again—the blank, dead, matter-of-fact stare. "Underwear is for the wealthy; not slaves."

"Go buy yourself some," Hawke said, and kissed him briefly. "It's been years since you were anyone's slave."

Fenris wondered about that sometimes, wondered if he could ever _really_ get out of that mentality. But he had another reason for not frivolously spending money. "That mansion requires more upkeep than I can afford as it is," he said, with an almost pleased tone. Any money that Fenris acquired was generally from pick pocketing or some other type of theft, or just doing what Hawke did and pilfering dead bodies. The pick pocketing, though, was part lyrium-infused talent, and that Isabela and Verric made great teachers, much to Aveline's dismay. He was also occasionally employed a mercenary, but those were too few and far between to last too long.

Hawke rolled his eyes. "I'll buy it then. And you and I can go _shopping_," he said, placing a feminine lilt on the last word. "And buy _underpants_ and _shoes_—"

"Hawke."

"Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me." The apostate was pleased to obey, his fingers spreading under the opening in his pants.

He frowned in surprised and broke the kiss, looking down. "No way, really?" he said incredulously. Fenris frowned. Hawke paused, then kissed Fenris' frowning lips, pushing him back onto his back. The elf's arms wrapped around the mage, fingernails trailing along his back, occasionally digging in as he moaned against the other's mouth. Hawke's hand slid lower down Fenris' pants, but they were much too tight to do anything but slowly stroke him with his fingers. They kissed until they were both panting, the heat risen anew again. Hawke gripped the leather pants, and gingerly rolled them down. It required some maneuvering, but he managed, throwing them carelessly behind him.

He looked down at Fenris like a starving man presented with a feast. Fenris suddenly wasn't so sure about this, but before he could move, Hawke had pounced on him again, kissing away any doubt, pushing his hips between the elf's legs. He ran his hands down the apostate's back, tracing the now red marks that lined his back—from the elf's fingernails no less-down to the underwear.

Fenris peeled off the last shred of clothing from Hawke, but the mage had to sit up and wriggle out of it before he could be free of it. He leaned back down over him, going back to kissing him savagely. His hand glided down Fenris' stomach, between his legs. Hawke's surprise earlier had been that Fenris' body was… Well, in human terms, infantile: He had no dark, scratchy body hair of any sort. An adult in every other way, but gloriously smooth otherwise.

Not to mention…

Hawke kissed Fenris' neck, licking along the lyrium veins. Fenris' breathing quickened as Hawke's tongue traced the pattern downward, down past his hips, his fingers running up his thighs, tracing the markings. All those markings seemed to be about glorifying the masculine: They all pointed to one place, and Hawke was more amused by it than anything else.

His fingertips ran upwards, along the markings that even graced his erection. How had he missed _that_ before? They glowed through everything; he just hadn't been looking, he supposed. He was definitely going to look for this particular design from now on.

Hawke's tongue traced the lyrium all the way to the tip of his erection. He breathed over it, his breath hot and promised wetness. His tongue lapped along it, teasing. His teeth gently nibbled the head. Fenris was circumcised, and some gnawing feeling told Hawke that it had more to do with the lyrium than something done at infancy. One of his hands trailed back up, to the elf's neck. Fenris tilted his head, catching his fingertips between his lips.

Virgin maybe, but he could mimic. Hawke lapped along Fenris' cock, the other mimicking the same movement against his fingers. His mouth covered the tip, slowly, his eyes open as he watched Fenris. Lips parted, drawing two of his fingers into his mouth, and waited. Hawke pushed his tongue down, along the vein. Fenris' tongue rolled out, slowly. Hawke moved his tongue in a circle over the tip, watching the other copy, almost coyly. Cute, very cute.

Hawke worked up some more saliva in his mouth before he pushed down further, getting as much of him into his mouth as he could before his eyes watered. His tongue slid along him, gliding over the smooth appendage, shuddering a little as he imagined Fenris' tongue on him as he felt the other's tongue roll over his fingers.

Enough of this—if he waited any longer, he felt like he might burst into flames.

Hawke lifted his head, pulled his head away. He gently withdrew his fingers and moved his hand down, quickly, before it dried in the warmth of the day. He put the damp fingers against the area of his intent. "Relax, Fenris, you're tense," he said, voice gone deep and soft with need. "I don't want to hurt you." There was a moment of discord, a moment of tension and a desire not to relax, then it was simply desire, and the muscles in his legs and lower back went slack. "Breathe... slowly." Hawke waited a moment, then pushed a finger into him. Fenris made a face at first, squirming uncomfortably. Hawke wriggled his finger in deeper, pushing against the resistance. His finger twisted inside him. Around him, it would be hot, dark, tight…

Fenris' toes curled, his oh-so expressive face twisting into discomfort. "Hawke, I don't think—Oh!" he cried, whatever he had been about to say lost in a long moan. Hawke found his lips curve into the beginnings of a smile; he had found what he was looking for and he leaned down, kissing the other's thigh gently, running his tongue along the skin, breathing in the scent of him, all the while his finger digging into him. He glanced up at Fenris' face, watching him while he inserted the other digit. He cried out, and his legs tensed, and he clenched around Hawke's fingers. Hawke moaned, his groin aching with desire. But he had to do this _slowly_, damn it all.

Hawke leaned his head down, moving his hand at a different angle, twisting his fingers as he worked to loosen him enough for what he intended. He lapped at a bead of sweat forming on the elf's leg, and moved his head. His lips touched the other's testicles. He ran his tongue lightly over them, teasing. He drew first one, then the other in his mouth, breathing carefully through his nose. He rolled them around, careful of his teeth, like a candy.

Fenris' fingers locked in his hair, and the elf had a grip like a mabari hound's jaw. Hawke's eyes slid closed, his breathing deepening. He couldn't _wait_ for this… And the other's moans were just delicious to hear. As he moved his tongue and fingers, he snaked a third finger in. Fenris gave a sharp cry, his wrist twisting in Hawke's hair. Hawke inhaled sharply, his cock dripping pre-cum. Andraste strike him dead if he didn't like hair-pulling.

Hawke pulled his head away, making a face as he remembered—_sand_, damn it. Still taking care to prepare Fenris, he batted his hand away. Fenris let go, but grudgingly. Hawke dug into him with more force when he noticed Fenris wasn't panting enough to suit him. The elf's back bent, legs trembled, breath caught in his throat. Hawke couldn't help it any more; he turned his head and spat, far enough away not to be a bother. With his free hand, he dug at his tongue, making odd enough noises that Fenris paused and looked up.

"What the hell are you—Ah… doing?" he finished with a sigh.

Hawke looked at him, and tried a sexy smile that immediately failed because of the _sand_ _in his mouth_. He scraped at his tongue a bit, finally satisfied. He swallowed twice. "Sand," he answered dryly. He leaned forward, kissing Fenris, anxiously waiting for when he judged the other to be ready enough for him.

The elf's arms wrapped around him and drew him down for a kiss, though it was frequently broken when Fenris cried out in pleasure. Hawke felt like he was dying, but just _watching_ this was a delight of its own and it was self-satisfying to know that he was the cause of it.

Hawke finally felt a smile touch his lips—he had finally reached that particular point he had been waiting for. _Finally_! He gently removed his fingers. Fenris' hips squirmed impatiently. The apostate positioned himself with his hand, his heart pounding with scarcely contained excitement. This was something best done slowly. The mage was gentle as he slid the head into him, a whisper of a moan escaping his lips.

Slowly, slowly, until he was completely sheathed in him, and stopped moving, trying to be completely, deliciously _aware_ of every sensation, every gasp, even every heartbeat. Fenris was panting, and he felt so tight around him. Hawke's eyes slid closed for a moment—just a little longer than a blink. He kissed Fenris' trembling lips. Fenris tasted himself on Hawke's lips. His legs slid around Hawke's hips, his fingers gripping his hair, forcing him into the kiss; he knew the other liked it.

Hawke's movements were slow, precise, and gentle as he repeatedly buried himself in Fenris. The elf's grip on his hair slackened as Hawke increased the pace, enough for both of them to part sufficiently to gasp and moan without knocking teeth—a most unpleasant thing.

Hawke braced himself against the sand, one hand on the ground and the other gripping the other man's hip. He pounded into him with the ferocity of two years of sexual tension. Hawke was glad that Fenris had apparently made _one exception_ to his hatred of mages. He moaned, pushing hard into him, head thrown back. _Very glad_.

It was a good thing that Isabela and Aveline were unconscious, or this might be awkward. Aveline would be utterly disgusted and appalled, and Isabela would just request to join. Either reaction would make the situation rather uncomfortable if they were to randomly wake… A good thing that passing out from lack of Health didn't work randomly like that.

Two long years of tension had been almost worth it—almost, because they could have had this sooner. Could have had every sigh, every moan, every cry, gasp, and strangled scream that much sooner. But something about the wait had made it that much more deserved, and maybe made it feel that much better.

Hawke slowed as he wormed his arm under Fenris' back, drawing them both upright. Fenris' legs around the mage tensed for a moment, his lips parted in a desperate moan. Hawke nibbled on the elf's lower lip, tilting his hips. Fenris' arms wrapped around Hawk's shoulders, fingers burying in his thick hair.

Fenris moved against him, arching his back. Hawke's hands glided down to Fenris' tight ass, kneading the muscle appreciatively. He gripped him tightly, lifting him with a groan. Fenris gave a sharp cry as the mage dropped him, then moved with him. Their bodies writhed against each other, sweat slickening their skin, their hair quickly getting plastered with sweat, sand trapped in the tendrils as they intertwined.

As the rhythm increased, Fenris' hands shifted, down to his shoulders, to support himself as he moved against Hawke—a seeming virgin that learned quickly. But it wasn't hard to tell what felt good. Hawke jerked his hips at just the right moment as Fenris twisted, back arching, throwing himself into it. His nails bit into the apostate's shoulders. Fenris flinched as one of them broke in his skin. Hawke cried out in pleasure, gasping.

The renegade leaned forward, lips against his neck, teeth sinking into his skin as he realized Hawke liked a little pain mixed with pleasure.

Hawke gasped, and _needed_ more control. _Needed_ to pin Fenris against a wall… Something primal in him screamed to _fuck him senseless,_ and he couldn't do it if the elf was on top. His grip on Fenris tightened. He shifted, gliding to his feet, holding on to the elf. Fenris' legs wrapped around him, letting go of his hair in favor of clinging to his shoulders, jerked his hips against him, bowing his back. He grunted, the air driven from his lungs as Hawke shoved him against the rough surface of the rock wall. Hawke's lips found his as he pinned him to the wall, driving into him as hard as his body and the angle could permit.

In the thrall of passion and pleasure, it was almost nice to _not_ be in control, to let Hawke do it. It was… oddly relaxing, and the stress and worry of being on the run for so long slowly drained out of him, if only for a moment. Passion and pleasure blurred, and somewhere in the cracks of consciousness, the subconscious and buried memories spilled over into the conscious realm. Knowledge, a peacefulness—just _knowing_ was enough. Slowly at first, like Hawke's first entry, then the memories just rolled into his mind with the steady pulse of Hawke's movements inside him, and it was so natural that it wasn't worth noting, not at the moment. They were there, and his life didn't begin with Danarius. It was enough, and it made Hawke's kiss that much sweeter.

If he had known all it took was passionate sex to break the seal on his memories, he would have done this a long time ago.

Peacefulness aside, even pleasure aside, his back was getting rubbed raw against the rock face, and the lyrium markings _hurt_ when they were rubbed like that. He shoved against Hawke's shoulders. The mage stopped, and slowly eased out of Fenris, setting him down. "Back hurt?" Hawke guessed—a good guess, because it was the right one. Before the elf could answer, he crushed his lips to his fiercely before he grabbed the elf and spun him around. Fenris put his hands against the wall. Hawke's arms encircled him, sheltering. He kissed his shoulder, the back of his neck. Fenris shuddered, and Hawke's lips curved into a smile. He ran his tongue along the back of his neck, listening in delight as the other moaned. He tilted his head to the side. He was taller than Fenris, or this would never have worked; he bit him, just hard enough to hold him. Fenris was moaning, trying to twist in pleasure, and failing to between the mage's hold on his neck, and his arms around him, and that had its own pleasure.

Hawke plunged effortlessly back into him. Slowly at first, his teeth against his neck. When he started to drool, he let go, but his lips moved to the side of his neck instead, nibbling along the bend where his neck connected to his shoulder. Fenris arched his back just right, and Hawke gasped, one of his fingers tweaking the other's nipple, almost playfully. His other hand trailed down between the elf's legs, gently toying with his erection. He matched the steady pace of his thrusting, and when Fenris, having none of it, pushed back hard against him, he moaned. _Fine_, he decided. _No taking it slow for you._

Hawke raised his head, bracing himself to pound harder into the elf. Soon, he was panting, sweating. He pushed into him, almost no regard for being gentle. He just threw himself into the passion and heat of the moment, and there was nothing but that. Nothing else in the world mattered—not Knight Commander Meredith, not the Circle, not the Templars, not the Qunari, not blood mages—_nothing_. Nothing but their sweating, writhing bodies against each other. No sound in the world except for their gasps, moans, cries, the sound of skin slapping against skin. The pleasure gave way to a sweet oblivion of nothing else.

Fenris felt his knees going weak, and Hawke noticed when the elf was leaning more heavily against the wall. He grabbed onto him with both arms, pulling gently out of him. Fenris tilted his head back to kiss Hawke, as the mage lowered them both back down to the ground, on hands and knees. Hawke resumed immediately where he had left off, keeping a tighter and tighter grip around the base of Fenris' cock, lest he spill his seed too early.

Hawke's other hand wrapped in Fenris' snow-white hair, fingers clenching near the root. He bent his head back, just enough to make his back arch, and his breathing a little more difficult, which only felt better actually.

Sweat dripped from their bodies, but there was a cool, gentle wind that only barely ruffled the sand, but when it did, the sand clung to their sweat like a lyrium-addled dwarf to a long-lost sandwich.

Hawke gave one last thrust into Fenris, spilling his seed in a white-hot ecstasy deep inside him with a soft cry. Fenris moaned, twisting his hips into him. Hawke shuddered, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He eased out of him. Fenris was panting, but still hard—good. Fenris slowly slid to a kneeling position, hands on his knees. Hawke crawled around him, kissing him mid-pant. Their kiss was long, passionate, leaving them both breathless. Hawke bent in front of him, taking him again into his mouth.

It didn't take much. His hot mouth around him, his wet tongue sliding against him, his fingers gently kneading his testicles, his hand around the base, all working in perfect unison, and the wet feeling of what Hawke had left inside him sliding down his thighs.

Fenris' orgasm was a long, soft moan in contrast to some of his _other_ noises Hawke remembered so fondly. The salty taste spilled into his mouth. Hawke swallowed quickly, lapping at the last of it, but sucking on him even as his member softened. Hawke's lips were suddenly against the other's pelvis. His tongue darted out, rolling across his package. He moved his head away. Fenris all but attacked him, shoving Hawke down on his back, kissing him savagely. His tongue snaked out of his mouth, lapping slowly, lasciviously, at the still salty taste clinging to the mage's lips.

Their lips locked for a time—a beat of a butterfly's wing, a millennia—and the two were panting against the other's mouth so hard that they had to stop. The elf lay on top of the mage, his head against his chest, listening to the other's quick but slowing heartbeat.

Hawke played idly with Fenris' perfectly straight hair. The elf's eyes were closed. Asleep? Possibly, or just exhausted. They _had_ had quite a workout, and men were usually tired after sex.

Hawke sighed, looking up at the sky, watching a cloud float by. Yeah, he could let him sleep for a couple minutes anyway. No huge rush. He felt satisfied—_more_ than satisfied.

For one, he had finally nailed Fenris. For two, his Mana was, interestingly enough, back to 100%. And all it had cost was a broken amulet, some bitching, and two unconscious companions. He looked down at Fenris.

Worth it. More than worth it, in fact.

A bird circled by overhead—a hawk this time, not more carrion. The mage watched it wheel in the sky as it hunted. It gave a loud, piercing cry that somehow only gave a pleasant counterpoint to the peaceful image of the blue sky, the soft wind, the warm sand and the distant smell of the sea and the crash of the waves. The hawk dove from sight, and the dive was shortly followed by the high, keening cry of some small creature's life ending.

Hawke glanced back at Fenris, his fingers still playing with the white hair. If he hadn't been asleep before, he definitely was now. It sort of surprised him; he hadn't seemed the type. But he was kind of glad he was. This was… nice. Pleasant even. It would be a lot nicer if they didn't have two unconscious friends about twenty paces or so away from them, but that wasn't the point.

Maybe, just the two of them… Comfortably alone, maybe with a big blanket to keep some of the sand off of them…

The mage jerked, realizing that he had nearly fallen asleep while he had been daydreaming. It would be dangerous to sleep here, like this. "Hey," he said, poking at the elf's face with his finger. "Wake up, you."

Fenris made a face, then his eyes opened. He peered around him, and seemed lost for a moment. Hawke frowned as Fenris sat up, the same lost look on his face, now tinged with distraught. "Something wrong?" he asked. The elf stared at him, as if not certain of how to respond.

His eyes slid closed, his fingertips touching his forehead, the way someone does when they tried very hard to remember something and fail to. He had fallen asleep. Just for a few minutes—no longer, he was certain. And then all those memories, everything… was just gone. His memories were drowned out again, reduced to that horrid instant of mind-numbing pain. It was all gone… again. He had had it, and it had slipped away. He felt… lost. Like he had finally _known_ himself, and now it was all… _gone_. His eyes opened again. "No," Fenris lied, because it was easier than trying to explain to Hawke what it was like. His hand fell away, his eyes open. He willed his expression to something blank.

"Are you… sure?" he said, sitting up.

Fenris didn't deign to respond. He stood up, but stumbled briefly before he caught himself against the rock wall. Hawke would have teased him, except for that expression on his face that gave him pause. Fenris took a deep breath, a hand against the wall. He brushed off as much of the sand as he could from his body, then found his clothing scattered about the area they had been in.

Hawke sat up, just enjoying the view. He cocked his head to the side. Fenris had a _great_ ass. Not to mention that he felt amazing. And, for a virgin, was a damn good lay too. When it became apparent that there would be no round two, Hawke didn't badger the matter. He stretched, enjoying the feeling of his muscles moving. He pushed himself to his feet with none of the grace the elf possessed. He almost couldn't find his underwear, and both of them had to shake sand out of their garments before putting them back on. Hawke raked his hands through his hair desperately, hoping it didn't look _too_ obvious of what they had been doing.

At the same time, let the fucking _world_ know.

He glanced sidelong at an oblivious Fenris, and grinned to himself. Yep, let the whole wide world know that he had _nailed_ him. And he didn't care who knew. In fact, he found himself not caring that anyone knew, even considering that it was considered "icky" for a human to be with an elf—something like a fetish.

Elves were good enough to fuck, he lamented, but not good enough to care about or love—or even come back to.

Hawke didn't feel that way; he definitely wanted a round two. Maybe not right now, maybe not even for another year or more, but this just _couldn't_ be the last time.

When the two were sufficiently dressed and they had gotten as much sand out of their clothing as was possible, Hawke revived the other two members of their party.

Isabela stretched as she rose from unconsciousness. "How long have we been out?" she wondered, peering up at the sky. "Two _hours,_ I'm guessing? What the _hell_ were you two…" She looked closer at Hawke and Fenris, her voice trailing off. They were disheveled—that could be from the battle, even two hours later if they had run in to problems afterwards—that was possible, though she knew they were no longer in the area they had been—obviously having been carried or drug elsewhere for whatever reason; she had to assume it was a good one. They were also sweaty—a feature easily attributed to battle. But was that… a hickey on Hawke's neck? _That_ certainly hadn't been there this morning… Yep, chapped lips, sweaty skin, sand in their hair, hickeys, Fenris was even walking a little funny. Isabela stepped closer to the two men, just to be sure, sniffing the air.

She caught a most familiar odor hanging about them—more on Fenris than on Hawke, which told her something. "Is that…" And she smiled slyly, though she was disappointed to be left out. One of her favorite fantasies involved Hawke and Fenris after all—and some whipped cream, maybe candle wax… "You two smell like… sex."

Fenris' back stiffened and he marched away, as if to say that he was having nothing to do with this conversation. One could almost see the little storm cloud hanging over his head. Isabela glanced down at his ass, feeling _very_ disappointed that she had missed it.

Aveline stared at them, aghast. "So you two had sex…" she said slowly, her voice filled with disgust the way one filled a bird with stuffing. "… not 20 paces away from us, while we lay unconscious."

Hawke shrugged a shoulder dismissively. "Could be worse," he said, and couldn't keep the smirk from his lips. "We could've used you as a prop."

Aveline was shocked and appalled at the notion. Isabela laughed. "I would only be angry if I were asleep during it," she said earnestly. Aveline's horror turned to all three of them. Well, she was always at least slightly appalled at Isabela, but that wasn't the point.

Hawke grinned. "Let's get going—I can't wait to have a bath and get some of the sand out of my hair, and I think Fenris has dried cum on him."

The aforementioned elf turned, casting Hawke with such a glare that would wither a flower. Hawke was defiantly unaffected by it. Fenris stomped away, down the road. Hawke, and thus the other two, followed after him. "I was asking if you wanted to join me!"

Fenris froze mid-step, then continued marching on, stubbornly ignoring Hawke.

"So, I must have details," Isabela insisted, sidling up to the mage. "Was he good?"

Hawke smiled wistfully, looking at Fenris. "Perfect, in every way." Only because no one could see it, Fenris' lips twitched into a half-smile, and he forgave him—just a little—for the earlier comment.

Isabela made a face, that not being at all what she had _really_ meant. "How big is his dick?"

"Perfect," Hawke responded matter-of-factly. In fact, that was his answer to nearly everything Isabela asked, and she eventually gave up asking him, though she did notice what Hawke's breath smelled like.

_Anders gawked at the page for a long moment, and flipped through the rest of the pages. Every page was filled. There were whole chapters, and each chapter had a sex scene. Sometimes it was he and Fenris, or Hawke and Fenris. Sometimes Sebastian was thrown in there somewhere, and sometimes even Varric for good measure. But one consistency about the book was that it was all of Isabela's male friends._

_ Anders had been having a drink and listening to one of Varric's stories when Isabela had polished off a drinking contest. She had a celebratory mug of… whiskey… and when she finished it, she passed out. Anders had carried her to her room and made sure she had something for the hangover in the morning, but on his way out, the book had caught his eye._

_ He glanced at her, unconscious on the bed. "I can't believe you," he muttered darkly, tucking the book into his belt. He strode confidently down the stairs, and sat back down to listen to the rest of Varric's story. When it was finished, and the dwarf was sipping his ale—not dwarven ale actually—Anders turned to Fenris, lifting the book._

_ "I have to tell you about this," the mage insisted._

_ Fenris frowned. "It's just a book."_

_ Anders rolled his eyes, and glanced at Varric, who was otherwise preoccupied, entertaining a couple Templars, as it happened, casting but one withering glance Anders way. The mage snuck out the back way, and Fenris, feeling adventurous, followed after him._

_ Anders glanced back at the door. "Here, I'll read it to you," he offered. "You illiterate sot."_

_ Fenris rolled his eyes, and listened to the excerpt that Anders read him. Anders had chosen a particular passage with care, and read aloud with feeling, but quietly so as not to attract attention._

_ The elf listened, his face growing more and more incredulous with every sentence. Anders shut the book suddenly. "The entire thing is like that," he insisted. "Isabela wrote it." That last bit was unnecessary to say aloud. Who else could it be?_

_ "Has she been spying on us?" Fenris demanded._

_ Anders shrugged. "Unlikely. I mean, she also wrote about me and Sebastian. And Hawke and Donnic. And you and Varric—among other things. I think the last thing in here is an orgy with all of us."_

_ "You have to read that to me," the elf insisted._

_ "Naked?" the mage asked, eyebrows raising._

_ Fenris scoffed, clearly insulted. "I'm offended that you even ask," he snorted. "Of course—but we'll have sex first."_

_ "But I wanted to read this to you. Then we can act out certain parts of it," Anders said._

_ "I wanted to sneak into Hawke's manor and have sex in his dead mother's room."_

_ A pause. "You're a horrible person."_

_ "I know."_


End file.
